AM A bona fide, kick-butt warrior, so it was pretty humiliating to be shoved out of a fast-moving car about half a mile from the safe house. I landed on my hurt wing,of course, and winced as I rolled to a crumpled stop.

My hands were bound behind my back. I got to my knees as soon as I could, then to my feet, feeling shaky and ill. My wing was streaked with clotted blood. I was light-headed and starving. My face hurt, and my cheek was swollen and warm.

The flock and I all have an acute, innate sense of direction, so after a minute I turned and started trotting east. Once I reached the safe house, I headed for the back door, which was locked,of course, because I had gone out through a second-story window hours before. My plan to be all sneaky so that no one would notice I was missing had been blown to heck. Sighing, I turned around and headed for the front door.

This whole sucky episode ended with my having to actuallyring the doorbell at the front of the house with my shoulder. Total even barked like a real dog. A curtain twitched, and then my mom opened the door, her brown eyes wide.

My mom is a veterinarian, an animal doctor, so let’s all put our hands together for the irony there. She patched my wing while she and Jeb tried unsuccessfully to find out what had happened. I wanted to mull

things over for a while, maybe do some research on the Chu-ster, so I just mumbled something about getting hit by a stray bullet in a freak accident.

“You shouldn’t fly for at least a week,” my mom said firmly.

I instantly interpreted that to mean three days.

“And I really mean a week,” she went on, looking stern. “Not three days.”

She was getting to know me.

Later that day, the CSM moved us to another house, this time in the Yucatan, which is a jungley part of Mexico. There weren’t as many people there, and the air was much more breathable, with less texture.

But what did the air quality matter, anyway? I couldn’t fly.

Me being unable to fly is not only my worst nightmare, but everyone else’s too, because I turn into such a cranky witch. By the afternoon of the first day, the flock was staying out of my way. They went out and did flocklike things. Total was practicing his takeoffs and landings, both of which he still sucked at.

I warned them to be careful, to be on guard, not to stay out too long. They were fine. Had no problems. Did not get shot at. Did not get kidnapped and taken to see a short, angry Asian man.

I stayed home and was forced to heal.

“Jeb,” I said, speaking to him voluntarily for the first time in ages. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you ever heard of a Mr. Chu?”

The blood seemed to drain from his face, and I saw him struggle to keep a calm expression. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I have. Where did you hear that name?”

I shrugged and walked away. He’d given me all the answer I needed.

Later I watched my flock fly away without me, off to have loads of bird-kid fun.

“Max.”

“What?” I snarled, turning from the window.

My mom stood there. I felt a little bad about snarling.

“Come on. I’m going to show you how to make Puchero Yucateco.” She gently pulled me away from the window.

Please don’t let this be a craft,I prayed silently.If she pulls out yarn, I’ll—

As it turns out, Puchero Yucateco is a stew made with three kinds of meat.

Me, my mom, and Ella spent all afternoon in the kitchen, chopping up things, stirring, mixing. My mom showed us how to tell when onions had cooked enough to be sweet, and how to tell when meat was done (usually I just try to wait for it to stop moving). We cut up habanero peppers, and despite all her

warnings, I managed to brush my finger against my nose, so my nose burned and ran, and my eyes watered, and I staggered around the kitchen going “Uh, uh, uh!” while Ella collapsed with laughter.

Typical family stuff. With a nonflock family.

“Huh—why is Max in the kitchen?” Gazzy asked as he walked in. His face was flushed, hair permanently tousled from the wind. Clearly he’d been having a glorious, exhilarating time, coasting high above the world. And wasn’t thatspecial for him.

“We’re cooking,” said my mom.

“She’s just keeping you company, right?” he asked nervously as my eyes narrowed. Nudge, Fang, Iggy, Angel, and Total all crammed into the kitchen and stared at the wooden spoon in my hand.

“No,” my mom replied, trying to keep a straight face. “She’s cooking.”

Quick, alarmed glances were exchanged among the flock.

“Cooking… food?” Nudge asked. I heard someone murmur something about ordering a pizza.

“Yes, I’m cooking food, and it’s great, and you’re going to eat it, you twerps!” I snapped.

And that was how I spent my three days of forced rest. The flock saw all the Mayan wonders of the Yucatan, and I learned how to cook something besides cold cereal.

So there was much amazement all around.

But my wing healed, and soon it was time to leave. I was thinking of maybe going to South America.

But the flock had different ideas. While I was healing, they’d taken a vote.

They wanted to try Jeb’s Day and Night School.