EN DIDN’T ANSWER my call.

I left a message, uneasy, feeling genuinely sorry. Ben could nurse a grudge. I knew my doghouse stay might be an extended one.

I’d texted him before leaving Saint Michael’s. Unfortunately, Ben had been halfway across the harbor, already on his way to pick me up. When informed that Jason would drive me home, he’d stopped responding.

Not good. Ben was clearly taking this personally.

What is it with those two?

Jason had insisted we eat at The Wreck of the Richard and Charlene, a ramshackle seafood joint overlooking Shem Creek. Mount Pleasant was the wrong direction from Morris Island, but Jason had been adamant.

And he’d been right. The restaurant was shabby-quaint, the food delicious. We’d gorged on fried shrimp and scallops. Two hours later, Jason finally dropped me at my townhouse.

With no afternoon plans, I decided to do some research. My newfound olfactory perception had somewhat unnerved me.

Could I really smell emotions? Motivations? I thought so, but wasn’t sure. Was such a thing possible, or was it the first sign of a brain tumor? Or dementia?

Google wasn’t immediately helpful. Dozens of articles linked smell and emotion, but none described anything similar to my experience.

Frustrated, I sought backup. With Ben pissed off, that left Hi and Shelton.

Hi arrived with his laptop in minutes.

I told him what happened at the church. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, about the yacht club episode a few days before.

“Stop it with the public flaring!” he snapped. “You’re gambling with all our lives. I’m not spending my teenage years on a hamster wheel, dancing for the Dharma Initiative.”

“They weren’t intentional. Lately my flares come too easily, out of nowhere.”

“You can’t let that happen,” Hi said. “Someone spots your eyes, just once, and you’re toast. We don’t know enough about the virus to take those kinds of risks.”

“Then help me get answers!”

His eyes narrowed. “The pawnshop. You were sniffing out Bates, weren’t you? Or was that flare an ‘accident’—” air quotes, “—too?”

“Well … no. I told you, we needed an edge.”

Dramatic sigh. “This is how it ends.”

I ignored him. “Let’s start with this emotional sensory thingy. It’s creeping me out, big time.”

Search after search led nowhere. Switching to more complicated strings, we added new terms and finally got some hits.

“Here.” I tapped the monitor. “A Rice University study found that certain couples can correctly identify their partner’s emotions by smell.”

“Gross.” Hi was sprawled on my bed. Naturally.

He tapped his laptop’s screen. “Some Ph.D. in San Diego claims that body odors can convey emotional states. Even to strangers.”

“So maybe I’m not crazy.”

“The guy works at Sea World.”

“Oh.”

Thirty minutes later, still nothing.

“I’m adding ‘canine’ to my searches,” I said. “And ‘instinct.’”

“Whatever. I’m adding ‘lunatic.’”

Suddenly, I hit pay dirt. An Alaskan study. On point.

“Here we go. Hi, check this out!”

He rolled from my bed and dropped into the chair beside me.

“This guy claims that Arctic wolves can detect changes in human emotion, using only their sense of smell.” Excitement rode my voice. “That must be it!”

“How can he prove that? Wolves can’t exactly fill out questionnaires.”

I shrugged. “This journal calls the evidence ‘compelling.’”

“He sounds like a crank,” Hi said.

Coop nosed into my room, yapped, and sat.

“Quiet, dog breath.” I scanned the article. “Olfactory receptors—that means your nose—connect to the limbic system, the primordial core of the human brain. That’s where emotions originate.”

Hi chortled. “So funky stank hits your primitive mind first?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Smells only get to the cerebral cortex—the cognitive center—after touring the deeper parts of the brain.”

Coop whined, danced a circle. I ignored him.

“By the time you can name a scent,” I said, “that odor has already activated the limbic system and triggered your deep-seated instincts.”

The wolfdog barked one last time, gave up, and rocketed down the stairs.

“Coop?”

“The limbic system,” Hi repeated. “Wait a sec. Remember what Dr. Karsten said about the virus?”

I thought back. Karsten believed that his mutated parvovirus rewrote our DNA, inserting canine snippets into our genetic blueprint.

“Karsten thought the changes might be rooted in the hypothalamus,” I said.

Hi nodded. “The quarterback gland of the limbic system.”

I paused, trying to process. “Karsten thought that a flare triggered when our hormone production spiked, because our nervous and limbic systems had incorporated canine genetics.”

“Our senses become wolflike,” Hi agreed. “Maybe even sharper than wolves, who’s to say?”

“The point is,” I said, “our powers emerge when something stimulates the limbic portion of our brains. Stress. Emotion. Strong sensory input.”

“If the limbic system is the brain’s emotional seat,” Hi said, “and our noses are hardwired directly to it …”

I nodded rapidly. “Then my ability makes sense. An ultra-sensitive nose could conceivably detect emotions.”

Hi grinned. “And your schnoz is the king.”

“Thanks.”

I finished reading the article, found something near the bottom. “Pheromones?”

“I’ll run the term.”

“Interesting,” Hi said. “Pheromones are chemical factors secreted by the body to trigger social responses in members of the same species.”

“I know you’ll explain that.”

“They’re scents. Pheromones act outside the body of the secreting individual by impacting the behavior of the receiving individual.” He thought a moment. “Smell instructions. Bizarre.”

“What do they do?”

“There are alarm pheromones, sex pheromones, lots of others. Insects use them.”

“How so?”

“Here’s an example.” Hi clicked the mouse. “If an ant finds lunch, it secretes a smell trail for his bros to follow to the food source. When certain animals are looking to mate, they do the same.”

“Humans?”

“Not so much, unless you believe Axe Body Spray commercials.”

“Not so much.”

Hi checked his watch. “Snacky time?”

“Ugh, I’m still stuffed. But help yourself.”

We headed for the kitchen. Hi located a pair of Hot Pockets. Ham and cheddar.

“Awesome.” He popped them in the microwave. “We never have anything good in our kitchen.”

“Your mom would kill me for corrupting your diet. Consider this a bribe to keep quiet about my nose.”

Hi’s brows rose. “Even with Ben and Shelton?”

“For now.” I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to share just yet.

We waited while the microwave counted down.

Hi spoke abruptly. “Do you ever wonder why our powers aren’t the same?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, Shelton and I compared what our flares feel like,” Hi said. “His experience is different from mine. And our strengths aren’t the same either. Shelton can hear better than me, and my eyesight easily beats his. But we all caught the same virus.”

“I wish I knew. My guess is that since everyone has a distinct genetic code, the canine DNA affects each of us differently.”

The microwave beeped. Hi deftly scooped his snack onto a paper towel.

“Do you think our powers will ever go away?”

“What?” A shocking thought.

“The flare ability. Think it’s permanent?”

“I … I don’t know.” The thought had never occurred to me.

To my surprise, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. My powers would forever brand me as an outcast, but they also made me special.

Coop barged between my legs. Cocking his head, he let out a yip that morphed into a growl.

“What’s with you today?”

I reached down to stroke his head, but he danced away. Barked twice.

“Suit yourself. Hi, watch him. I need to grab the mail.”

“Get over here, mutt!” Hi ordered. “You can lick my toasting sleeves.”

Grabbing my keys, I bounced down the steps, through the garage, and outside. The mailbox stood twenty feet away. All junk, except for a letter to Kit with a Buffalo return address. I debated tossing it out with the credit card offers.

Suddenly, I had the sensation of being watched. Stiff neck hairs. Ice on the spine. You know the one.

I waited, but it didn’t pass.

My feet spun a quick three-sixty. Nothing.

Coop was at the kitchen window, barking frantically.

Freaky.

Reverse spin. There was no one in sight. Nothing moved.

“Shake it off, Brennan.”

I hurried back inside. Foolish perhaps, but so what?

I hate that feeling, like being a bug in a jar.

The creepy tickle of eyes on my back.

Feeling like a target.