balding on top,
but he shaved his whole head down to its shine. Dad would look
better like that.
“What’s really in the box,” I whispered. “Pez dispenser?
Star Wars action figure?”
He shook his head and returned his attention to Howell.
“Go ahead,” Howell said, opening her own box. Dragon
lifted the lid, tilting his box and moving it down, so the thing
hung in the air between him and me. It was pale and about as
long and thick as my index finger, curved without a definitive
shape.
What a shame, I thought. They could have planned some-
thing genuinely funny.
Howell picked up her item and showed it to Wilder.
“Unusual, isn’t it? Unlike any other matter I’ve encountered.”
Dragon plucked his out of the air, holding it to his palm
with his thumb.
“We call them tokens, for lack of a better signifier,” How-
ell said. “They are cool against the skin and tingle a little. Go
ahead, you can touch them.”
“It isn’t dangerous?” Ruth asked, eyeing the token in her
astronaut’s hand.
“My team and I have been holding and studying these for
years,” said Howell. “As you can see, we’re perfectly fine.”
60
Dangerous
That might be a matter of opinion, I thought.
Dragon offered the token to me between his thumb and
forefinger. It was like liquid that could hold form. I pinched it
between my fingers, and it brightened as if turning on.
“This is not a Pez dispenser,” I whispered. The token felt
crazy cold. I was leaning in to get a closer look when it slid, set-
tling into my palm. The lack of gravity should have made that
impossible.
I started to ask Dragon, “What is this really?” But then the
pain struck.
White-hot cold piercing my hand, stealing my breath. I
heard someone scream and someone else say, “Owie, owie,
owie . . .” but I couldn’t look away from the token thing sub-
merging as if my palm were water. I clawed at it with Ms.
Pincher’s plastic fingers.
The ripping pain stabbed into my wrist and crawled up my
arm, tearing through my shoulder and thudding into my chest,
where it flared to a point of agony that killed every thought from
my head.
The torture lasted seconds that felt like hours, and then the
pain just ended.
I became conscious of myself again. I seemed to be upside-
down from where I’d been, huddled against the ceiling in the
corridor outside the lab, my knees against my chest, my hand
pressed to my heart. Dragon was holding me, one arm around
my back, his other under my knees, as if I were a baby.
“Are you okay, are you okay?” he was asking over and over
again.
“No,” I said. My voice was cracked from screaming. I
touched my palm. There was no mark. “I saw that thing go into
61
Shannon Hale
my hand. Did I hallucinate it? Am I crazy?”
“You’re not crazy,” said Dragon. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure
this out.”
The way he held me reminded me again of my dad, and
a pang of homesickness twitched in my chest. When you’re a
thousand kilometers above Earth and an alien sausage burrows
into your arm, all you really want is Mommy and Daddy.
“Dragon—I’m just going to call you Dragon, okay?” I fig-
ured the whole alien torture token had earned me a first-name
basis. He nodded. “Dragon, did something lethally bad just
happen?”
He was taking my pulse. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but
I don’t know.”
In the lab, the others looked as bad as I felt, crouched
against walls, shuddering. Ruth was yelling at Howell.
“You just infected us with an alien parasite! Are you in-
sane?”
“But it’s not a parasite. It’s . . . it’s technology. Of some sort,”
Howell said. Beads of sweat shivered on her brow, no gravity to
slide them down.
Dragon checked my pupils and fit me with a blood pres-
sure cuff.
“His blood pressure is a little high,” said the astronaut
checking out Jacques, “but that’s normal, considering . . .”
Was there something on
but he shaved his whole head down to its shine. Dad would look
better like that.
“What’s really in the box,” I whispered. “Pez dispenser?
Star Wars action figure?”
He shook his head and returned his attention to Howell.
“Go ahead,” Howell said, opening her own box. Dragon
lifted the lid, tilting his box and moving it down, so the thing
hung in the air between him and me. It was pale and about as
long and thick as my index finger, curved without a definitive
shape.
What a shame, I thought. They could have planned some-
thing genuinely funny.
Howell picked up her item and showed it to Wilder.
“Unusual, isn’t it? Unlike any other matter I’ve encountered.”
Dragon plucked his out of the air, holding it to his palm
with his thumb.
“We call them tokens, for lack of a better signifier,” How-
ell said. “They are cool against the skin and tingle a little. Go
ahead, you can touch them.”
“It isn’t dangerous?” Ruth asked, eyeing the token in her
astronaut’s hand.
“My team and I have been holding and studying these for
years,” said Howell. “As you can see, we’re perfectly fine.”
60
Dangerous
That might be a matter of opinion, I thought.
Dragon offered the token to me between his thumb and
forefinger. It was like liquid that could hold form. I pinched it
between my fingers, and it brightened as if turning on.
“This is not a Pez dispenser,” I whispered. The token felt
crazy cold. I was leaning in to get a closer look when it slid, set-
tling into my palm. The lack of gravity should have made that
impossible.
I started to ask Dragon, “What is this really?” But then the
pain struck.
White-hot cold piercing my hand, stealing my breath. I
heard someone scream and someone else say, “Owie, owie,
owie . . .” but I couldn’t look away from the token thing sub-
merging as if my palm were water. I clawed at it with Ms.
Pincher’s plastic fingers.
The ripping pain stabbed into my wrist and crawled up my
arm, tearing through my shoulder and thudding into my chest,
where it flared to a point of agony that killed every thought from
my head.
The torture lasted seconds that felt like hours, and then the
pain just ended.
I became conscious of myself again. I seemed to be upside-
down from where I’d been, huddled against the ceiling in the
corridor outside the lab, my knees against my chest, my hand
pressed to my heart. Dragon was holding me, one arm around
my back, his other under my knees, as if I were a baby.
“Are you okay, are you okay?” he was asking over and over
again.
“No,” I said. My voice was cracked from screaming. I
touched my palm. There was no mark. “I saw that thing go into
61
Shannon Hale
my hand. Did I hallucinate it? Am I crazy?”
“You’re not crazy,” said Dragon. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure
this out.”
The way he held me reminded me again of my dad, and
a pang of homesickness twitched in my chest. When you’re a
thousand kilometers above Earth and an alien sausage burrows
into your arm, all you really want is Mommy and Daddy.
“Dragon—I’m just going to call you Dragon, okay?” I fig-
ured the whole alien torture token had earned me a first-name
basis. He nodded. “Dragon, did something lethally bad just
happen?”
He was taking my pulse. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but
I don’t know.”
In the lab, the others looked as bad as I felt, crouched
against walls, shuddering. Ruth was yelling at Howell.
“You just infected us with an alien parasite! Are you in-
sane?”
“But it’s not a parasite. It’s . . . it’s technology. Of some sort,”
Howell said. Beads of sweat shivered on her brow, no gravity to
slide them down.
Dragon checked my pupils and fit me with a blood pres-
sure cuff.
“His blood pressure is a little high,” said the astronaut
checking out Jacques, “but that’s normal, considering . . .”
Was there something on
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