The Brokenhearted by Amelia Kahaney Page B

carefully untie the strings on my hospital gown. Nobody thought to find a bra, thank goodness. This is one of those times when it comes in handy not to really need one. I stop myself from looking closely at the black line of stitches and pull on the huge maroon sweatshirt, careful to avoid brushing it too roughly against my bare chest.
    After I lace up the sneakers, I slowly turn the door handle, peering out into what must be the main room of Jax’s lab. She’s bent over a Bunsen burner in the far corner, heating water in a large beaker, humming an aimless tune.
    I dry-heave a couple of times when I see the rest of the lab. Along each wall are dozens and dozens of animal cages, full of rats, rabbits, mice, and even a monkey, black and scrawny with a large tuft of white chest hair. My heart whirring, I begin to move quietly in the direction of the door. As it creaks open, I see Jax’s frizzy head whirl around from the corner of my eye. But by the time she makes it to the door, I’m already halfway down an alley. She won’t chase me too far, I realize as I gather speed. A fugitive can’t risk being seen.
    And then I’m running, running, running, a lab rat loosed from its cage.

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HarperCollins Publishers
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    CHAPTER 12
    At first, I run slowly, nervous I’ll hurt myself so soon after major surgery. I stop for a moment behind a smoldering tire fire to gauge how I’m holding up physically. I should feel like collapsing, but I don’t. I feel energized. My muscles are warm and loose. I put a hand over my whirring chest. What was it Jax said about my heartbeat? Ten times per second? It’s so fast I can’t differentiate between the beats at all. It feels more like a vibration.
    I take off again, and with each block I’m pushing harder, daring myself to go faster. The longer I run, the more the tightness in my chest fades. Soon it’s nothing but an internal itch. My feet pound the trash-strewn streets of the South Side, my pace quickening until it feels as if my sneakers are barely touching the ground. The rhythm of my toes on the sidewalk, the blast of cool air in my lungs, the simple fact of being alive after everything that’s happened makes me feel that even with this . . . thing inside me, I’m still healthy and strong.
    Maybe I’m more than just healthy , I realize as I speed past a couple of ragged street kids on skateboards. They stop to watch me, their mouths hanging open.
    Concentrating on my newfound speed allows me to temporarily shove all the horrors of my back-alley operation into a tiny corner of my brain, slamming a door on the whole mess of it and locking it tight. The operation, I can block out. But Gavin—held in some dark room somewhere, suffering, at their mercy—fills my thoughts.
    After I run twenty more blocks in the empty dawn-saturated streets, I start focusing less about running away from the lab and more about running toward home. I have maybe forty-two hours to get the kidnappers their money. I know they won’t think twice about killing him if I don’t meet their demands.
    I turn right, then left, then right again, marking a zigzag course. When the skyscrapers of North Bedlam loom into view, I begin to run even faster. My arms pump through the cool air, my legs lunge higher and harder with every step—until I see a flash of blue in the street just behind me, keeping pace.
    I skid to a stop and instantly fold over, putting my hands on my knees and pretending to breathe harder than I really am, for the police cruiser’s benefit. It pulls up alongside me, and a bitter laugh escapes my lips. Now—when I don’t need them—they show up.
    My laughter dies as I catch my reflection in the smoked glass window. A rectangular swatch of gauze is stuck to my forehead, a blood spot the size of a grape seeping through it at my hairline. The gash from the birdman, I realize, shivering slightly. My