HE WAITRESS at the all-day breakfast buffet brought me four more pancakes, looking at me doubtfully.

“Yay, thanks,” I said, making room on my plate. “You want that last sausage?” I said to Fang.

He pushed it over to me. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

I quit chewing. “What?”

“You hardly got any sleep last night, your flying has been erratic and clumsy all day, and you’re slowing down after only twelve pancakes. What’s on your mind?”

“You really do know me,” I said, and swallowed. Although — “Wait a minute. My flying was clumsy? I don’t think so.”

Fang grinned at me, with predictable heart-fluttery results.

“Okay,” I said. I poured myself a lake of maple syrup and started pushing triangular rafts of pancake into it. “I’ve been thinking. Angel said that you were gonna die. Then Dylan shows up, Mr. Perfect. Jeb comes back into our lives. Angel boots me out of the flock. Dr. God is now everywhere, and there’s someone shooting at us. What if Angel and Dr. G-H are working together? Or he’s controlling her somehow?”

Fang stared at me blankly and then looked out the window.

“What if it’s all part of some larger plan?” I continued, keeping my voice down. “Like, someone’s trying to split up the flock. Or Jeb is trying to take over again, and can’t with me there. Or you,” I amended. As a rock-solid hypothesis — ha-ha — it wasn’t much.

Fang pushed food around on his plate. “Mr. Perfect?” was his only comment.

“What? Oh.” My stomach knotted. “No — I mean, it’s just like he’s a Ken doll or something. Mutant Ken, with wings. Like he was designed to be …”

“Perfect?” Fang’s gaze was level.

“Someone’s idea of perfect,” I said. “Not mine, obviously.”

“Yeah,” said Fang. Awkward silence. “Or … it could all just be a bunch of weird stuff happening for no reason. Here’s the non-conspiracy-theory version: Dr. God is just an egomaniac. Angel is just another one in the making. Jeb and Dylan are just a couple of losers looking for a family. And maybe you were just a pain-in-the-butt leader and the kids kicked you out for good reason.”

My eyebrows rose, and Fang gave me a lopsided grin before I could shoot him down.

“Or maybe not,” he admitted. “Maybe we should call, check in?”

“I still feel responsible for them.” I sighed. “Even though they’re, you know, all backstabbing little ingrates.”

Fang nodded, and his too-long black hair swished like silk.

“I’ll call Nudge,” I decided. “She seemed kind of the least turncoaty.”

Holding my breath, I dialed Nudge’s number. If she hung up on me or told me not to call anymore, it would be very bad. I hesitated, thinking this through.

“Just hit send,” said Fang.

So I did. It rang for a long time. What were they do —

“Hello?” Nudge sounded so normal I wanted to cry.

“Hey, Nudge. It’s me.” I cleared my throat and braced myself. There was a lot of noise on her end, people talking, a TV blaring. I heard Gazzy laughing in the background. “ ‘Ssup?”

“Max!” Nudge sounded thrilled to hear from me. “Max, hi! Where are you?”

That was weird. She knew I wouldn’t say anything over the phone. “Where are you?” I asked as a test.

“LA!” she said. “We’re going to a party with celebrities!”

“Huh. um, are you okay?”

“We all had, like, stomach flu earlier. But now we’re fine. I miss you! Oops, limo’s here! Gotta go. Love you! Call ya later!” She hung up.

I looked at Fang. “They’re fine. Going to a party with celebrities in LA. Limo was there to pick them up.”

Fang looked at me. “Trap?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah. Trap.”