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352 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2014

I've been hit.
Lacey's here. She pulls my arm. They pain's unbearable.
She jolts me. "Tia!" she shrieks. "Get up, they're shooting!" She jolts me again.
I recoil. I try to get up. I put my good hand to my shulder. It comes away red. Lacey sees it and screams. Rushing air blasts overhead. The helicopter's still there.
"They're trying to kill us," sobs Lacey.
I force myself up.
"Keep going," he orders.
In the alley, he pulls me to a stop. I'm too out of breath to say anything. He drops us back, into an entrance, against a bricked-up doorway. He's panting and sweating. His face is half-lit, half in shadow. He lays a finger over his lips. I try to stop wheezing. Me shoulder throbs. My chest is on fire.


"Too right," laughs a friend. "I don't know why she's so fussed about having her tubes snipped - it's not like anyone'd want to do her, anyway."
They laugh. Laugh and laugh. I press harder on my arm. Dear God, let them go.
"You know why she hides her identity?" says another. "Why she calls herself EVE? Mother of the Future?"
"No?"
"Because she's so ugly even Frankenstein ran away."
Cobain opens his mouth and laughs. "That's good. That's really good. I heard she really is ugly."
"All that lot are ugly," says his friend, "that's why they're so angry, because they're panting for it and no guy'd ever look at them."
"Not this guy anyway," says Cobain. "Like would I be bothered about some random bit of pussy that's got to whip up support to get itself noticed?"

We are the people!
We are the image of the future.
We are the first drops of a flood.
We are the lightning on the horizon.
We are the sound of the coming storm.
We are the wolves at your door.
”She is saving the world - well, a small part of it. You don’t even know what she does.” Suddenly I want to tell him, make him ashamed. “She’s got a clinic with another doctor - he’s Indian - they use microsurgery to repair bladders and internal pelvic organs of girls who’ve been raped or forced to deliver children too young.”
I’m ready.
I’m going to team up with him.
I untrust him.
It’s a new kind of trust. I trust him to be a yob, to think like one. I trust him to at least do that, like trusting a snake to bite or something. Or a star to shine. And I untrust him with my life.

I’m writing this now from my little veranda outside the back of the clinic Dr. Shah has started. Yes, he has a surgery in India! And I am employed in it!

”Can you send out a message for me too?”
“Yep,” I reply. “What d’you wanna say?”
‘Prisoners unite, you have nothing to lose but your freedom.’
I start typing.
“Not really,” he says.
I obediently stop keying it in. “I want you to message out: COBAIN HEARTS TI,” he says, “in caps. To the universe.”

"The taut flesh parted, exposing the tube. There it lay, slim as a flower stalk, bedded in pink-soft tissue."
"A chant reverberates from the front, back down through the march: 'HANDS OFF OUR BODIES!' I chant along too, loud and proud. Stop taking orders, start taking over!"
"They steal our dreams, we steal their thunder."
"'Don't trust anyone,' says Cobain. 'Not even me.'"
"I untrust him. It's a new kind of trust. I trust him to be a yob, to think like one. I trust him to at least do that, like trusting a snake to bite something. Or a star to shine. And I untrust him with my life."