Germ

went nameless for thirty years. Most whistleblowers preferred it that way. He eyed the icon that represented the attached file. If it was a virus, the company's computer guys could take care of it. And his computer backed itself up every evening, so he wouldn't lose much, in a worst-case scenario. He selected the file and opened it.

His monitor displayed a list of names, addresses, and, on most records, what appeared to be social security numbers. He scrolled down. The list went on and on. He hit the button that jumped him to the last entry. Exactly ten thousand.

Scrolling back up, he recognized some names—politicians, celebrities, business leaders. Of course, these could be average joes who only shared the names of famous people. There was also a large number of names he didn't recognize. What did any of these people have in common? Why were they on this list? Why was he sent the list, and who sent it? The social security numbers bothered him. The list could have come from one of the stolen data files that made the news every week—hacked credit card companies, hospitals, schools. Hardly the story of the century.

There was only one way to piece this puzzle together. He chose a name at random, opened an Internet phone directory, slipped on his Telephone headset, and let his computer dial the number.

The car, sleek, black, and low, roared through the streets

of Paris at dizzying speeds. It plunged into a traffic tunnel, slalomed between pillars, and zipped past slower cars.

"This is where Princess Di crashed," Bobby Waddle said. His eyes darted like Geiger counter needles as he assessed approaching dangers and opportunities to skirt them. He risked a quick swipe at his nose and wiped what came away on his jeans. He sniffed hard to avoid another such distraction.

Next to him, Cole Martin scrunched his nose. "Who?"

"She was going to be queen of England. Mom liked her."

Bobby's car left the ground as it came out of the tunnel onto Pont de l'Alma. Biting pavement again, the rear tires spun with unfocused power and caused the back end to skitter into the side of a taxicab. Sparks flew, and the speedometer instantly dropped ten miles per hour. He was doing only eighty-five now.

He glanced at the rearview mirror and didn't like what he saw: another sleek sports car, this one red, gaining quickly. He pushed a button and released a thick stream of oil onto the roadway. His rival spun out of control and crashed into a bus.

"No fair!" Cole yelled.

"The oil was an upgrade I picked up on the last lap," Bobby said, laughing. He coughed and reminded himself not to laugh.

Cole threw down his controller. On the lower half of the television's split screen, his car was on fire. Words flashed over it—Respawn: HIT BUTTON A.

"Come on. It's no fun by myself," Bobby said. His eyes never left the screen. His fingers moved over the controller with robotic efficiency.

"You always win!" Cole complained.

Bobby set the controller in his lap and turned to his friend. He coughed. His chest felt tight, and it hurt. "I've been playing longer than you. You want me to let you win?"

"No. I just . . . I don't know. I don't like this game anymore."

"Wanna play Halo?"

Cole shook his head.

"Quake?"

"No."

"What do you want to do?"

"How about Nerf-gun tag?"

That sounded good. They'd been on the Xbox for about an hour, as long as his mom allowed him per day.

"It," he said.

"You're always it."

"All right, you be it." He turned off the TV and dropped the wireless controllers into a drawer. As they were heading out the back door, the phone rang.

Bobby's mother yelled down the stairs: "Bobby, could you get that, honey?"

"Aw, Mom!" But his words weren't as loud as he thought they should be. His lungs just couldn't push them out. He decided it was easier to answer the phone than to argue.

"Hello?" He watched Cole pick a Nerf gun out of the toy box on the deck and check it for sponge bullets.

"May I speak to Robert Waddle, please?" A man's voice.

"Who is this?"

"Jeff Hunter, from the New York Times."

"We already get a newspaper."

"I'm not calling about a subscription. Is Robert Waddle there?"

Cole was waving at him to come. He waved back.

"That's me, but nobody calls me Robert. Just Bobby."

"You live in Castle Creek, right? New York?"

"It's next to Binghamton."

There was a pause. "Is your dad also named Robert?"

"His name was Philip. He's dead." He was getting annoyed.

"I'm sorry. Did he die recently?"

"When I was a baby."

"When you were what? I'm sorry."

"A baby. I have a cold."

"How old are you now?"

"Ten. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Cole had jumped off the deck and was making his way toward the woods at the back of the property. Bobby wanted to play around the house, but Cole thought because Bobby wasn't there, he got to choose the rules. Dang it.

"That's right, you shouldn't. But let me just ask one thing. Has anything unusual happened to you lately?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. An accident, or has anybody—"