Hollow Earth by John Barrowman, Carole E. Barrowman Page A

double-tapped the face of his watch.
    On the count of three.
    Em nodded, counting out loud, ‘One, two, three.’
    In unison, they each tapped an icon on the screen on their watches and, simultaneously, Zach hit ‘return’ on his laptop. The download bar on Zach’s computer screen filled, and their watches beeped when the patch was uploaded. Zach closed his laptop, sliding it back into his pack.
    ‘My dad’s GPS will now follow a route I’ve created around the island,’ he signed with a grin. ‘As for us, we’re offline and on our own.’

TWENTY-TWO
    A s the children biked across the island’s hiking trails, they avoided the majority of the tourist traffic on the main road. When they reached the ferry port to Largs, they realized how right their grandfather had been. It was still early, but already long lines were snaking out from the information centre. The island tours were filling up at every run, and the rental shop was running low on bicycles.
    ‘What do you think?’ asked Matt, scouring the crowd.
    ‘How about that American family over there renting the tandems?’ signed Zach.
    ‘How do you know they’re American?’ asked Em, as they watched two adults and four children fastening their helmets and sorting their gear.
    Zach tapped his mouth. ‘Good eye.’
    ‘He read their lips,’ said Matt, pulling a handful of flyers from the front pocket of his backpack. ‘Zach and I will head to the cove and get things set up. Let us know when you’re close.’
    The boys pedalled back in the direction they’d come, while Em kept her eyes on the American family. When they’d pulled out on to Beach Road, she followed them.
    Beach Road was really more of a paved lane. Whenever two oncoming cars needed to pass each other at one of the island’s sharp bends, one of the vehicles had to swerve on to the verge of the hill or pull on to the stony beach. As the American family reached the first bend in the road, the traffic was at a standstill. A car pulling a caravan had taken the curve without checking the mirror on the side of the road, sideswiping a tour bus coming in the other direction. Both were locked together.
    For most of the traffic stuck behind the obstruction, the late summer weather, the calm sea and the peaks visible on the nearby isles were far too beautiful to make it an incident worth complaining about. A few people walked out on to the pebble beach to get around the blocked road, some settled on to the hillside to wait, while the rest turned and went back the other way.
    Em was now directly behind the American family, who were debating whether or not to risk wading through the low tide to get around the bend, turn back or wait until the obstruction was removed.
    ‘Sometimes it can take the tow truck hours to get here,’ Em offered, ‘and that’s if Mr Ralston is even at the garage when the call comes in. He’s probably off fishing on a day like this.’
    ‘Are you a local?’ asked the mum. The youngest son, who looked about five, was sharing her tandem.
    Em wheeled her bike closer. ‘It’s bound to happen again – it always does. You don’t want to spend your entire day waiting around.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I know a really fun thing for your family to do that’s not too far from here.’
    Em felt a surge of warmth emanating from the mum. She glanced at the dad, balancing a girl of about seven on the back of his tandem, and the warmth deepened. Em could tell they were good parents, that they were genuinely thrilled to be on holiday, and that they wanted their children to really enjoy themselves, too.
    Renard had been teaching Em to pay attention to the way people made her feel. Someday, he said, it might save her life. She knew this particular situation was not what her grandfather’d had in mind, but she also knew, like Matt and Zach, that she was really tired of being told what she could and couldn’t do with her own mind. Plus, what was the real harm in practising