Chapter 7: Earth

“—Followers of Isis. But apparently they’re preparing for something big.”

My head snaps sideways.

“Who cares?” An overweight man slices a bite off his rib eye and pops it into his mouth. His designer suit can’t do anything about his double chin. “Look, until Holden says we should be concerned, I’m not worried what they’re doing, and you shouldn’t be either.”

Without thinking this through, my feet start moving. I’m not allowed to leave the kitchen, but in this moment, I’m not getting caught up on rules. It’s the first time in my entire life that I’ve heard someone talk about Isis or Amun as anything other than some kind of joke about ancient Egyptian history. As I approach, the heavy man looks up at me. The other gentleman he’s eating with makes eye contact with me as well. Silvery eyes that just match the silvery accents in his dark, short-cropped hair, and a ruddy, red face.

My heart practically stops dead in my chest. Because the companion, the one who mentioned the Followers of Isis, other than the length of his hair, looks exactly like Robert—the man I flung into the stable wall on Terra. I choke and cover it with a cough.

“Are you alright?” the heavy man asks. “Can we help you with something?”

I’m not on Terra. And clearly I did not think this through. Here on Earth, I have no reason in the world to be walking to their table—I’m a dishwasher. I tilt my head, searching the lookalike’s eyes for any kind of recognition. “Robert?”

The man’s silvery eyes widen. “Yes. My name is Robert.” He glances at his companion for guidance. Then, apparently not getting any, he turns back to me. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

I swallow. “I’m positive I know you from somewhere, but I can’t place where.”

“Do you work here?” the heavyset man asks, glancing pointedly at my white staff polo shirt with the word ‘Perry’s’ embroidered on it.

“I do, right. I was coming to see whether you have any dishes you’re finished using. I can take them to the back and get them out of your way.” I glance down at the full plates of food that clearly just arrived. I’m such an idiot.

“We don’t yet.” Robert smiles at me, but his brow furrows. “But give us a few moments and I’m sure we will.”

I gulp. “I overheard you mention the Followers of Isis.”

The overweight man flinches, and Robert’s eyes widen.

“It’s just that I have a project due for my Egyptian Antiquities class, and it’s on Isis and Amun-Ra. I figured maybe you were, like, specialists on him or something. I’d love to interview you.”

The heavy man pulls a card out of the inside pocket of his suit. “I’m not an expert per se, but I’d be happy to teach you everything I know.” The gleam in his eye makes me nervous. His smile broadens. “Call me, whenever.”

My stomach turns.

“Alice!” Ramon’s urgent whisper yanks my head back more effectively than a punch to the nose.

“I’d better go. I apologize for interrupting your meal.”

“You can interrupt my meal anytime,” the heavy man says.

Ugh. I spin around and race back for the kitchen, but a strange look on Robert’s face sets my teeth on edge. He’s still staring at me intently while I gather up the dishes on the tray and take them back to the sink.

“What was that?” Ramon barks.

“I thought I knew someone,” I mutter.

Ramon’s scowl scorches me from across the kitchen, and I know one of his rants is coming. The other employees freeze as if they can feel it, too. “If the Queen of frigging England comes to eat here, and it turns out she changed your diapers as a baby, you will stand in front of that sink and wash dishes. And under no circumstance, ever, are you to leave this kitchen. Do you understand me?”

I don’t think the Queen of England even changed the diapers for her own children, but I keep my lowly serf mouth shut about it. “Yes, sir.”

A commotion from the dining room draws my eye. When the kitchen staff congregate at the door to the dining room, Henry and I follow suit, staying carefully near the back of the rubberneckers.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Ramon disappears to address the issue, whatever it is. Manager and all.

“Someone has passed out,” Chris says. “One of the guests. He’s on the floor, unresponsive.”

I jostle past Jenny until I can barely make out the dining room. There’s a man on the floor, mouth and eyes open, not moving at all. His eyes are vacant.

It’s Robert.

Ramon storms through the door and orders us back to our positions. I obey, but I wash dishes without thinking, my mind spinning a million miles a minute.

I flung Robert into the side wall of that stable. It likely caused damage to his skull, and maybe a brain bleed. Martin could have Healed him, if we hadn’t run. But then the man surely would have told everyone I could Lift. Martin fled. . .to save me. To keep my secret hidden. Now on Terra, we don’t know whether he survived to tell people about me. . .or died.

What if he bled and bled and bled into his brain. . .and then finally died?

And now, a seemingly healthy Robert here, a mirror image of Robert from my dream world, just. . .collapses?

The ambulance comes a few moments later, and I listen for the rumors. Finally Chris drops off a tray of dishes. “Heart attack, the medic said. They couldn’t revive him on site. They’re taking him to the hospital, but it doesn’t look promising. They think he’s—” He drops his voice to a whisper. “—dead.”

My shift is nearly over when Robert’s dinner companion, the heavyset man, pokes his head into the kitchen. “Is there a manager I can speak to?”

“Mr. Sinclair, of course.” Paul, the general manager of the entire restaurant, has materialized as if by magic. “I am so sorry about your friend. What more can we do? Anything at all.”

“I’d love to speak to you privately, if possible.” The man glances my direction and our eyes lock. He doesn’t frown. He doesn’t smile. Then he turns and ducks into Paul’s office.

The skin across my shoulder blades crawls. What is he asking? Why does he need privacy to do it? Is he asking about me? I live by three rules: take care of Jesse, avoid being noticed, and don't trust anyone. Robert dying, and then this guy coming back here to talk to Paul, put me on high alert for both the second and the third.

I need to know what this guy is saying and whether it’s about me. Pronto.

“Hey, I’ll go grab another tray of plates,” I say.

“I can go.” Henry wipes his hands.

I leap in front of him and put both hands against his chest. “No, it’s fine.”

Henry’s eyes widen and he meets my eyes. “Okay. You’re being really weird today. What’s up?”

I don’t have time to deal with him, not right now. “We can talk later.” Now let me go, I plead with my eyes.

Henry raises one eyebrow and then shrugs. “Okay. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something anyway.”

Huh? “Uh, great.”

Henry smiles and goes back to washing. I breathe a sigh of relief before jogging across the kitchen to the bus boy’s cart. It happens to be right around the corner from Paul’s office. This time I stack the plates as slowly as I can, one ear turned toward the closed door.

It’s hard to make out anything over the clangs and bangs from the kitchen, but I catch isolated phrases, mostly from Paul. I inch a little closer, inspecting a dirty plate as if it needs evaluation for some reason.

“Warum brauchen sie diese Informationen?” Paul asks in German.

Paul asked the man why he needs the information. Paul has no reason to know that I speak German, so perhaps they switched languages to prevent eavesdropping. But they could switch to Spanish, Russian, Mandarin, Czech or Swahili, and I'd still understand. I have no idea how, but I’ve always been able to speak any language I hear. I've learned the hard way to keep this ability to myself. My French teacher thought it was cool right up until she got freaked out and called the school counselor, who only relaxed when I lied and said I learned to speak French fluently from a childhood nanny.

The man’s reply is too soft to hear, but I make out the words Freund and Familie, which means family friend. But who is he claiming as a family friend? Paul? Robert? Me?

“Ich darf keine Namen von Mitarbeitern nennen.” Bless Paul for speaking so loudly. “Ich kann dir ihre Adresse sicher nicht geben.”

The man asked Paul for my name and address, apparently, but he won’t give it to him.

“I wish I could help you more,” Paul says, inexplicably switching to English. “Today has been harrowing all around, and I offer my greatest condolences to you again that this took place in our restaurant. I can certainly ask Alice whether she’ll speak with you. Would that suffice?”

I practically sprint across the kitchen and plunge the entire tray of dishes into my side of the sink.

“Whoa there, Speedy Gonzales. What’s going on with you?”

I glance behind me one last time and then turn back to Henry. “I thought I saw someone I knew in the dining room.”

“So that’s why you went in there.” Henry shakes his head. “Ramon’s still steamed about it.”

“I know, but I was wrong. I didn’t know him. But in a bizarre twist, that’s the man who died. And now the old man who was sitting across from him is in Paul’s office, asking about me.”

Henry’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? Wait, does he think you, I don’t know, had something to do with it?”

I shrug. “I hope not. I didn’t even touch them or their food or anything. I couldn’t have.”

“Of course not.” Henry scowls, suddenly. “Paul didn’t tell him anything about you, right?” Something about the intensity in Henry’s expression surprises me.

“Yeah, I mean, no, of course he didn’t. But he said he’d ask me if I would talk to him.”

“You’ll obviously refuse.” Henry’s still scowling. “That guy may be upset about his friend, but there’s no reason to drag you into this, just because you thought you knew him. It was a coincidence.”

I don’t mention that I knew his name. And I certainly don’t mention that he was talking about the Followers of Isis. The only place I’ve ever heard anyone mention the Followers of Isis or Amun is on Terra. Can I really afford not to talk to him? He’s the first person on Earth who might know something about my bizarre dreams.

Dreams in which I’m now in danger, it seems.

My hands tremble and my heart races. I want to run, immediately, as fast and as far as I can. I wish I had a circle of wagons to ride with me over the nearest mountain range, or through an eerily lightning-laced forest. But here on Earth, I don’t have an adopted family that stands behind me. I’m all alone, me and Jesse, and for transportation, a city bus is pretty much my only option.

A moment later, Paul and his guest emerge from his office. I brace myself for him to approach and ask my permission to speak to the customer, but they just shake hands. The heavy man leaves without a backward glance.

It’s a relief. . .and it’s also the saddest part of my day, honestly.

Or, at least, right up until I’m packing up to leave it is. Because for the first time since I started working here, Ramon notices when I stick my to-go box into my shoulder bag.

And he fires me for it.