I am Number Four

When you have lost hope, you have lost everything.

“It’s not? I thought I was the one being hunted. I thought I was the one in danger. You could walk away right now and the Mogadorians would never look for you. You could live a nice, long, normal life. You could do whatever you want. I can’t. They will always be after me. They will always be trying to find me and kill me. I’m fifteen years old. I’m not a kid anymore. It is my decision to make.”

“What is it that you think I’m missing?”

“A life.”

“You are my life, kiddo. You and my memories are my only ties to the past. Without you I have nothing. That’s the truth.”

We left when we were young, almost too young to remember.

He says we need to live in the real world, where war and death are a reality, not pretend.

I’m fifteen years old. I’m not a kid anymore. It is my decision to make.”

Almost.
I am told the ground shook, that the skies were full of light and explosions. We were in that two-week period of the year when both moons hang on opposite

closer. The man gets to his feet and walks slowly to the door. Silence. The man takes a deep breath as he inches his hand to the latch. The boy sits up.
“No,” the man whispers, and in that instant th

PROLOGUE
THE DOOR STARTS SHAKING. IT’S A FLIMSY THING made of bamboo shoots held together with tattered lengths of twine. The shake is subtle and stops almost immediately. They lift their heads to listen, a fourteen-year-old boy and a fifty-year-old man, who everyone thinks is his father but who was born near a different jungle on a different planet hundreds of lightyears away. They are lying shirtless on opposite sides of the hut, a mosquito net over each cot. They hear a distant crash, like the sound of an animal breaking the branch of a tree, but in this case, it sounds like the entire tree has been broken.
“What was that?” the boy asks.
“Shh,” the man replies.
They hear the chirp of insects, nothing more. The man brings his legs over the side of the cot when the shake starts again. A longer, firmer shake, and another crash, this time closer. The man gets to his feet and walks slowly to the door. Silence. The man takes a deep breath as he inches his hand to the latch. The boy sits up.
“No,” the man whispers, and in that instant the blade of a sword, long and gleaming, made of a shining white metal that is not found on Earth, comes through the door and sinks deeply into the man’s chest. It protrudes six inches out through his back, and is quickly pulled free. The man grunts. The boy gasps. The man takes a single breath, and utters one word: “Run.” He falls lifeless to the floor.
The boy leaps from the cot, bursts through the rear wall. He doesn’t bother with the door or a window; he literally runs through the wall, which breaks apart as if it’s paper, though it’s made of strong, hard African mahogany. He tears into the Congo night, leaps over trees, sprints at a speed somewhere around sixty miles per hour. His sight and hearing are beyond human. He dodges trees, rips through snarled vines, leaps small streams with a single step. Heavy footsteps are close behind him, getting closer every second. His pur

apart if he fell on them. His only chance is to get across the ravine. He’ll have a