Mila 2.0: Renegade. Debra Driza

      If I could record real-life moments in my head like a DVR, this afternoon would top the list as one of the most replayed. Far-fetched? Maybe for a normal girl. But normal wasn’t a word that applied to my life anymore. Though, at this precise moment, I was giving it my best shot. Focusing on the now—just me, salt, sand, and the blazing sun baking my skin and reflecting off the dark-haired boy’s head like a million tiny sparklers.

      White froth lapped at the shore mere inches from my toes—6.15, to be exact—but my focus remained intent on his head, bobbing out past the breaking waves. He dove under them with the fluid ease of a sea creature, and even from here I could catch glimpses of the sheer bliss on his face. Hunter was completely in his element.

      Enjoy it while you can, I silently urged him. We wouldn’t be staying long.

      Or maybe we would. I had decisions to make yet, about my future.

      Overhead, a seagull squawked before dive-bombing a leftover morsel on the sand. At the harsh cry, something rippled in the far recesses of my mind, then disappeared.

      I shivered, like the sun had dipped beneath a cloud.

      Hunter swam with sure strokes in my direction, water curling behind him in a huge arch. I held my breath. Compared to the wave, he looked so small and insignificant. The water swept him up, and in an explosion of white foam, he vanished.

      I jumped to my feet, but then he rose from the water like an offering from the sea. My phantom heart returned to its regularly scheduled pumping cycle. I sank back onto my motel towel. Silly. Of course he was fine.

      Not that I didn’t have reason for major anxiety issues.

      He padded toward me, water beading on his bare skin, his shaggy hair clinging to his neck and causing rivulets to rain down his chest.

      “Sure you don’t want to come in? The water feels great.”

      “No thanks.” Too hard to be on alert when you were in the middle of the ocean. But of course, I hadn’t said that. My no-swimsuit excuse was much less of an eyebrow-raiser.

      Hunter threw himself onto the sand beside me, flinging tiny droplets onto my bare arm. I watched them cling to my skin, and Hunter’s gaze followed mine.

      “It’s not because of that, right?” His gaze skimmed my left shoulder, which was covered by the sleeve of my slightly rumpled T-shirt. “Your arm’s okay in water?”

      “Yeah, it’s fine.” But his attention made me self-conscious. I folded both arms over my bent knees, making sure the right one ended up on top. Not because I was bashful about my prosthetic limb, like Hunter assumed when he saw wires protruding from it like busted bicycle spokes back in Clearwater, but because my arm wasn’t really prosthetic.

      Not in the true sense of the word, anyway. Though, technically speaking, I guess you could consider all of me prosthetic. One of the many pitfalls of being an android.

      My stomach twisted, making me sigh. Another pitfall? Finding a tactful way to tell the boy you liked the truth about your little issue with nonhumanness.

      In my defense—I didn’t know him all that well. Not unless you considered a shared truck crash, a late-night interlude involving a barn, and a date gone wrong to be the cornerstones of a profound relationship.

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