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  Praise for Michael Cadnum

  “Not since the debut of Robert Cormier has such a major talent emerged in adolescent literature.” —The Horn Book

  “A writer who just gets better with every book.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cadnum is a master.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Blood Gold

  “A gripping adventure set during the 1849 California gold rush. Complementing the historical insight is an expertly crafted, fast-paced, engrossing adventure story full of fascinating characters. This is historical fiction that boys in particular will find irresistible.” —Booklist, starred review

  “This novel is fast paced.… The well-realized settings, which range from remote wildernesses to sprawling cities, create colorful backdrops for Willie’s adventure. An enticing read.” —School Library Journal

  “The prose is lively.… A spirited introduction to the gold rush for older readers.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Breaking the Fall

  Edgar Award Nominee

  “Tension hums beneath the surface.… Riveting.” —Booklist

  “Eerie, suspense-laden prose powerfully depicts the frustrating, overwhelming and often painful process of traveling from youth toward adulthood.” —Publishers Weekly

  Calling Home

  An Edgar Award Nominee

  “An exquisitely crafted work … of devastating impact.” —The Horn Book

  “Probably the truest portrait of a teenaged alcoholic we’ve had in young adult fiction.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Readers … will never forget the experience.” —Wilson Library Bulletin

  “[Readers] will relate to the teen problems that lead to Peter’s substance abuse and the death of his best friend.” —Children’s Book Review Service

  “Through the prism of descriptive poetic images, Peter reveals the dark details of his sleepwalking life.… An intriguing novel.” —School Library Journal

  Daughter of the Wind

  “Readers will enjoy the sensation of being swept to another time and place in this thrill-a-minute historical drama.” —Publishers Weekly

  Edge

  “Mesmerizing … This haunting, life-affirming novel further burnishes Cadnum’s reputation as an outstanding novelist.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “A thought-provoking story full of rich, well-developed characters.” —School Library Journal

  “Devastating.” —Booklist

  “A psychologically intense tale of inner struggle in the face of tragedy.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Forbidden Forest

  “Cadnum succeeds admirably in capturing the squalor and casual brutality of the times.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Heat

  “In this gripping look at family relationships Cadnum finds painful shades of gray for Bonnie to face for the first time; in her will to grasp the manner and timing of her healing is evidence that she is one of Cadnum’s most complex and enigmatic characters.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Compelling. Adopting the laconic style that gives so much of his writing its tough edge and adult flavor, Cadnum challenges readers with hard questions about the nature of fear and of betrayal.” —Publishers Weekly

  In a Dark Wood

  Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  “A beautiful evocation of a dangerous age … Readers who lose themselves in medieval Sherwood Forest with Cadnum will have found a treasure.” —San Francisco Chronicle

  “In a Dark Wood is a stunning tour de force, beautifully written, in which Michael Cadnum turns the legend of Robin Hood inside out. Cadnum’s shimmering prose is poetry with muscle, capturing both the beauty and brutality of life in Nottinghamshire. In a Dark Wood may well become that rare thing—an enduring piece of literature.” —Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War

  “[T]his imaginative reexamination of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham is not only beautifully written but is also thematically rich and peopled with memorable multidimensional characters.” —Booklist

  “Cadnum’s blend of dry humor, human conflict and historical details proves a winning combination in this refreshing twist on the Robin Hood tale.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A complex, many-layered novel that does not shirk in its description of [the period], and offers an unusually subtle character study and a plot full of surprises.” —The Horn Book

  The King’s Arrow

  “The King’s Arrow is an adventure story full of color and romance, as resonant as a fable, told in clear, clean, swift prose. A wonderful read.” —Dean Koontz

  Nightsong: The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  “Cadnum (Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun) once again breathes life into classic mythological figures.… Skillfully creating a complex, multidimensional portrait of Orpheus (as well as of other members of the supporting cast, including Persephone and Sisyphus), Cadnum brings new meaning to an ancient romance.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Another excellent retelling of one of Ovid’s mythical tales. This well-written version is a much fuller retelling than that found either in Mary Pope Osborne’s Favorite Greek Myths or Jacqueline Morley’s Greek Myths. The story is a powerful one, delivered in comprehensible yet elevated language, and is sure to resonate with adolescents and give them fodder for discussion.” —School Library Journal

  Raven of the Waves

  “[A] swashbuckling … adventure set in the eighth century, Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) shows how a clash of cultures profoundly affects two distant enemies: a young Viking warrior and a monk’s apprentice.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Convey[s] a sense of what life might have been like in a world where danger and mystery lurked in the nearest woods; where cruelty was as casual as it was pervasive; where mercy was real but rare; and where the ability to sing, or joke—or even just express a coherent thought—was regarded as a rare and valuable quality … Valuable historical insight, but it’s definitely not for the squeamish.” —Booklist

  “Hard to read because of the gruesome scenes and hard to put down, this book provokes strong emotions and raises many fascinating questions.” —School Library Journal

  Rundown

  “Deep, dark, and moving, this is a model tale of adolescent uneasiness set amid the roiling emotions of modern life.” —Kirkus Review

  “Cadnum demonstrates his usual mastery of mood and characterization in this acutely observed portrait.” —Booklist

  Ship of Fire

  “Brimming with historical detail and ambience, this fact-paced maritime adventure will surely please devotees of the genre.” —School Library Journal

  Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun

  “Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) once again displays his expertise as a storyteller as he refashions sections of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into a trilogy of enchanting tales. Readers will feel Phaeton’s trepidation as he journeys to meet his father for the first time, and they will understand the hero’s mixture of excitement and dread as he loses control of the horses. [Cadnum] humanize[es] classical figures and transform[s] lofty language into accessible, lyrical prose; he may well prompt enthusiasts to seek the original source.” —Publishers Weekly

  Taking It

  “Cadnum keeps readers on the edge of their seats.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Cadnum stretches the literary boundaries of the YA problem novel. This one should not be missed.” —Booklist, starred review

  Zero at the Bone

  “Riveting
… [an] intense psychological drama.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Much more frightening than a generic horror tale.” —Booklist, starred review

  “A painful subject, mercilessly explored.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Zero at the Bone

  Michael Cadnum

  For Sherina

  Even with my eyes closed:

  the tree so full of birds

  1

  I smelled fire.

  The first thing I tried to do was find my dad. It wasn’t that easy—everyone in the mill looked the same, all snowy with cottonwood dust. Everyone wore white face masks and an improved kind of goggle ever since Leo lost an eye wearing the legally approved type of guard the day before Christmas two and a half years ago. Besides, no one could hear in there, the saws ripping up the timber so loud the workers wore ear protectors, green plastic earmuffs. You couldn’t hear a scream.

  So I hurried through the cabinet room, people stapling together nightstands. The hoses that powered the staplers hissed and the compressor thrummed so loud it shook everything inside my body, all my organs, the yellow air hoses wiggling, looping through the air.

  I hurried into the office, hoping Dad was in there on the phone, but the only person there was Barbara. She was standing in front of the copy machine. She had just got the front of the copier to come off, and was looking down at a paper jam, a bad one, several sheets of paper crammed into each other. Barbara is a caved-in kind of person who expects this sort of thing to happen. She was holding the entire front half of the copier like she didn’t know what to do with it, put it down or put it right back where it belonged and forget she ever saw the big white cauliflower of paper in the middle of all those rollers.

  “Where’s Dad?” I said.

  As soon as I said it, I knew it sounded a little unprofessional, the boss’s son needing to talk to his father.

  Barbara gave me one of her vague looks. “Hi, hon,” she said. Then my question worked its way into her, and she said, “I think he’s in back on the spur, but I don’t know.”

  This was bad news in two ways. If he was back on the spur, he was up in the boxcar, supervising. The railroad spur brought lumber to the back of the factory, and I could make it there in half a minute, but I’d have to get his attention, forklifts rumbling and shouting guys all over the place. If he wasn’t up in the boxcar, he could be anyplace, and I’d be way in the back of the furniture factory, about half a mile from the nearest phone.

  Besides, I wasn’t sure. If I had been sure, I would have punched 911 into the phone right there in the office. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want to believe it, that was part of the problem. Another part was that I was glad to be able to help Dad take care of things now that the nightstands were starting to ship out, and I didn’t want to make a huge blunder my first week on payroll.

  So I hustled back, through the cabinet room, air hoses bobbing overhead, all the way back into the mill, workers white with hardwood sawdust, the air thick with the bitter smell of the wood. I found the place right under the hole in the ceiling, where you can feel the fans drawing up air, and I told myself I was wrong.

  There wasn’t any fire.

  No fire. Nobody else noticed a thing. Of course they wouldn’t, their faces masked, each worker concentrating on carrying the big, white, hairy boards, letting the saw take them, the air trembling with the shriek of the wood when the big saws ripped into them. I knew I shouldn’t be in that room without ear protectors. Several spare ear guards hung on a hook, lightly dusted with sawdust.

  I could run, now, and spread the alarm. But I didn’t. I stayed, praying I was wrong. Up on my tiptoes, trying to argue with my own sense of smell. Trying to outsmart what I already knew.

  There were red-and-white fire alarm buttons all over the factory, maybe even those fire extinguishers behind glass. All I had to do was kick the glass and the fire department would be here in record time.

  But I could not see them. I saw useless, vivid details, a paper mask on the floor, its strap broken, the big sign, DAYS SINCE AN ACCIDENT: 940. I could see the hood off one of the lathes, the workers bent over the naked, still core of the power tool. They turned, glad to have a little downtime, smiling to see me. Their smiles went a little dead when they saw my expression.

  It’s amazing how that happens, people in the middle of routine, and then they know something is wrong.

  This time when I rushed into the office, Barbara was crouched down by the copier, not even looking up, and I sat at her desk, her chair still warm. I could turn on the intercom and make an announcement, ask for my dad by name, as though he could hear me all the way inside the Southern Pacific car. I could push the buzzer for five o’clock closing time, although it was only four-fifteen. I could punch a series of preset numbers, call my mom, or Anita, or Dr. Pollock.

  But I had to stop and think before I found the button for an outside line. I don’t know why they decided 911 was a good idea. It doesn’t matter now. But I think they might have thought about choosing 211, which would be easier.

  Or even 111. And then when I was done, I pushed the intercom button and kept my voice slow and steady. “Mr. Buchanan, front office, please.” This meant that someone on a forklift would hear me and get my dad’s attention and tell him Cray was on the intercom, and in about five minutes my dad would get done taking care of whatever he was doing. Dad loves to work and he hates to be interrupted.

  I found one, right by the women’s lavatory, a big red Kidde fire extinguisher, and I tucked it under my arm. It was like running with a torpedo under one arm, a strange new game, half football, half war. I knew it was a little useless. Spray from an extinguisher like this would not reach up into the chute, past the fans, into the burning sawdust up in the hopper on the roof.

  Jesse, the foreman, looked up from the lathe and ran after me, and he didn’t even have to ask. Jesse can move fast. He hit the switch on the wall, and shut the fans down, the room falling still, the saws going from monster soprano to dull steel moan to nothing. So silent.

  Jesse was under the chute, looking up, and he looked at me after I joined him, the fans slowing down, big propellers between us and the sky. Jesse is wide and tall, with ebony skin and a close-clipped black mustache. “Better get your dad,” he said.

  Smoke was sifting down, now that the fans were still. The gray fumes drifted, like something that was supposed to happen, a celebration everybody had planned, little charred specks of confetti.

  2

  The nearest fire station was on Fruitvale, only a few blocks away, and the sirens started up fast and then seemed to linger in the near distance, the sound hanging in the air. It was like all those other times when a siren has passed on the edge of my attention, nothing to do with my life or the life of anyone I love.

  It was only as the siren grew closer that the thrill of it, and the fear, began to take hold of me again. The siren reached a crescendo and the sound of the engine was right outside.

  Their footsteps shook the floor. The firefighters filled up the entire front entrance, marching through the front door into the office. Barbara was making one of her “don’t look at me” expressions, one hand held out. Giants in black waterproofs and helmets clumped up to the counter where the UPS packages, Jiffy bags of touch-up paint, were piled.

  One of them carried an ax. A bright steel ax with a red stripe up the side of the blade, and a sharp hook at the other end of the ax head. All I could think was—they’re going to tear holes in my dad’s factory. And I had better be right—there better be a fire.

  “It’s in the sawdust hopper,” I said. “On the roof.”

  Then I shut myself up. Here I was, talking like I knew what I was saying, and the firemen looked at me, their visors tilted. Their faces had open, tense expressions. They were ready for a fire, but it was all right if the fight was easy. I half expected the head firefighter, an especially tall man, my size, to tell me I was too young to know very much—they wanted to talk to someone in ch
arge.

  But the tall fireman asked where the quickest access was, from the side street, or from somewhere inside the property. I told him I thought the side street was probably a good idea. And they left. They didn’t bump into each other, scrambling. They were there, and then they were gone.

  Barbara gave me a round-eyed expression. Her finger was pointed at the phone, ready to start punching numbers on the intercom, the telephone, but she didn’t know what to do.

  I tore outside, and ran faster than I had ever run before, faster than the time I ran for eighty yards and a concussion in the game against Skyline.

  My dad was already on his way, and he can run. He pointed up to the roof with one hand, and he was running so hard his arm waved up and down a little.

  By now smoke was rolling out of the top of the hopper, a funnel-shaped structure on top of the roof. Firefighters were taking their time getting up the ladder, making sure the ladder was steady, making sure their feet were in the rungs.

  “Clear the finishing room,” my dad said.

  He said this without looking at me, but it was me he was talking to.

  The finishing room was always a dream world, blue and pink chairs hanging from hooks in the ceiling. The floor was uneven with paint of all colors, as though a volcano of party colors had erupted once years ago.

  The workers were spraying banana yellow just then, the stuff coming out thick. A bentwood chair hung there in the air and a worker aimed a nozzle at it and the blond, bare wood was suddenly clotted with paint, the stuff not cut thin enough to go through the gun, the metal nozzle a space weapon that didn’t kill, it just made things change color.

  If the factory roof began to burn, this place would explode. Barrels of black paint labeled FLAMMABLE lined a wall. I called out that everyone should go outside, there was a fire. Maybe I expected panic. People finished what they were doing. An air compressor stuttered into silence. Someone untied a smock and let it fall, but you would have thought I had just announced an extra coffee break, or closing time forty-five minutes early.