ON A cold November morning, she was feeding the chickens and her dad was fixing a hole on the side of the coop.
When all the hens were happily pecking at their breakfast, Alana saw an opportunity. "Can I ask you something?"
Her dad was focused intently on the hole, pensively rolling the hammer in his hands. "You just did, but sure thing. What's up?"
"Am I adopted?"
He went still. The breeze ruffled the back of his graying head. Then, he gripped the hammer decisively.
"Thought we got over this, kiddo," her dad chuckled weakly. "Your mom didn't go through nine months of morning sickness for nothin'."
"Mom's not here, it's just us," Alana pushed. "Both of you have blond hair and blue eyes, and I look like this."
"Genetics work in weird ways, y'know," her dad said, hammering a nail into a plank of wood.
"I lived somewhere else when I was very little."
"Oh, yeah. Our house in the suburbs near that big fightin' arena. Good neighbors, nasty mortgage payments. We moved away when you were three, but you know that."
"If I go to Saint Cassian's Hospital and ask for a copy of my birth certificate, will they have it?"
No one, not a single doctor, school aide, or tax man had ever questioned the authenticity of Alana's birth certificate, except for Kalluto. He took one look at it and told her it was fake, pointing out the subtle signs of forgery. Someone very skilled had created it, he said. Someone who really wanted her to be Alana Danvers.
Her dad put the hammer down, a dirtied hand coming up to hold his head. He either couldn't or wouldn't turn to face her.
"Tough times back then," he said. "Don't go askin' your mom these things. She's wound up enough as it is these days. Go shower and get ready for school. I don't want you showin' up smellin' like bird."
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To Alana's dismay, the town wasn't over Beth Brown's death yet. Plainview Secondary's middle schoolers were called into the auditorium for an assembly, and she was unceremoniously crammed between her classmates, rusted folding chairs knocking together. The mix of body odor, body sprays, and overall anxiety was the quickest way to earn her ire. Alana was in a horrible mood even before the middle school principal got on stage and started the usual platitudes.
Next to her, Gabby from the photography club kept fidgeting and bouncing her leg.
Alana zoned out through the principal's speech, only paying attention when he finally addressed the elephant in the room.
"I'm sure some of you have noticed a couple of guests in our town," the principal said, "but there is no need to panic -- our friends from the Hunter Association are here to assist the local police and make sure everyone is safe. Allow me to welcome them on stage to say a few words."
Two figures walked out -- a woman and a boy.
Alana didn't know if she wanted to laugh or scream.
The boy kept to the stage's shadows, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair was white. It had been a long time, but she recognized the slouched shoulders meant to distract from his discerning eyes. He always hid his chocolate from her.
The prickling feeling she'd felt at the funeral came back with a vengeance, and this time Alana was able to pinpoint him as the source.
How was he doing that?
