Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure by James Patterson

worse, then by golly, it would get worse. We couldn’t just dissect a frog, or an earthworm, or whatever. We had to dissect something with wings .
    The other students chattered around me, their reactions ranging from excited to grossed out. Iggy, Dylan, and I were the only silent ones.
    Dr. Williams began handing out plastic bags containing rubbery chicken carcasses. I fought back a wave of panic and nausea as I skimmed my info packet. Phrases like Count the number of primary feathers and Remove the heart and Examine the air sacs popped out at me.
    Please, if there’s any justice at all in this screwed-up world, please don’t make me have a mental breakdown and start hyperventilating in front of my entire biology class.
    Dr. Williams placed a plastic bag on our table, two feetfrom my nose. Dylan and I both stared at it, unwilling to touch it.
    “Okay, folks,” Dr. Williams said merrily. “Get your goggles, your gloves, and your trays. The packet explains everything, but come to me if you have questions. Happy dissecting!”

20
    I PUT ON my clear, dorktastic goggles automatically while Dylan fetched the dissecting tray. It was equipped with a scalpel, a small pair of scissors, three pokey, suspicious-looking tools, and a pair of tweezers.
    “So,” I said, mentally smacking myself upside the head when my voice shook. “Ready to cut this thing open?”
    “We can leave, if you want,” Dylan replied softly. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do.”
    I clenched my teeth and pulled my shoulders back, shaking my head. “No. Normal people do dissection labs. And we’re normal people, remember?”
    He nodded, his aquamarine eyes fixed on me.
    I regretted my decision almost as soon as we set the chicken on the tray. It splayed out pathetically, headlessand mostly featherless, with puckered pink skin. I felt the chill of goose bumps on my own flesh and shivered.
    The chicken’s wings were small and had tiny tufts of down still stuck to them.
    White down.
    Like Angel’s.
    “Step one,” Dylan read aloud. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Place chicken on its back. Grasp both legs and push down and away from the pelvis.”
    In another time, I might have snickered immaturely at the word “pelvis.” But at that moment, all I could do was numbly follow the instructions, while trying to block smells and memories.
    It was bred for this , I reminded myself, holding the scalpel. Inside a claustrophobic metal cage, it had been fed scraps. It had been genetically manipulated for a satisfactory amount of plumpness and complacency. It had been bred with a smaller brain, too; it was too stupid to see how trapped it was. To see that this is how it would end up, amid the glint of scalpels, the snick of blades sliding into flesh.
    I was stuck in an in-between place, not sure whether I was in biology class or back at the School. Student voices and whitecoat voices bounced around in my mind.
    Then Dr. Williams’s face materialized all up in my grill. “Max, Dylan, how’s it going so far?”
    I nodded, trying to slow my breathing—I hadn’t realized I’d been hyperventilating. “I’m okay… really.” I lookedup at his face, at the four wrinkles on his forehead, his almost calculating hazel eyes.
    It was all somewhat… familiar.
    Alarm bells went off in my head, wailing, Danger danger danger! My alarm bells were not to be taken lightly.
    Was it possible that Dr. Williams was a whitecoat?
    “Actually, I feel a bit sick,” I said brusquely. “Come on, Dylan. Iggy!”
    Iggy twitched on his stool and turned in the direction of my voice.
    “C’mon, Ig,” I repeated, ignoring Dylan’s curious glance. “Time to go.”
    “Max, the boys seem fine,” Dr. Williams said. Concerned or threatening, concerned or threatening ? It was a question I had to ask myself way too often.
    “No, I feel sick, too,” Dylan said. Good boy.
    Iggy wove through the maze of lab tables. “Gonna barf,” he informed Dr.