This is a first-draft chapter. If you can guess how old Amber is based on the things she says, please let me know. Because I'm finding it hard to work out how old she is.

Amber had always known she was different, though sometimes the people around her might see it a little differently. Her parents described her as a perfect nightmare, which was a little unfair, while school teachers had changed their opinion from 'troublemaker' to 'dreamer' as a few years progressed and she almost learned not to say what was on her mind.

She'd always known she was different from everyone else, even if she didn't know why. She'd got used to looking over her shoulder, just in case there really were mysterious men in black trying to track her down. And she'd tried very hard to stop thinking of the people around her as 'sheep', in case some passing telepath caught her. But the time she finally got some confirmation that she was different from the outside world, she wasn't even expecting it. She was lying in bed, listening to the various clicks and creaks of the house settling after a busy day. She should have been sleeping; the glowing blue figures next to her head spelled out 03:14. But her mind wouldn't quiet down just because of some numbers on a clock, and one thing Amber was occasionally proud of was that she always listened to her muse when ideas struck. Even if she wouldn't remember what it had been about by the time morning came.

"Amber Lynn Crookshanks?" a question from the darkness jolted her awake, just as she was starting to nod off. The voice had a strong accent, possibly southern, and an air of confidence about it, like this person was used to being obeyed. Either that or he was just full of himself, which seemed to be the case with most men of her father's age. That same confidence in his tone made it quite clear that he knew who he was talking to, and that the question mark affixed to the end of his statement was there only because that was the way these things were done. With an accent like that, Amber was sure he would also be a stickler for tradition, and maybe just a little bit posh.

She pushed herself up a little on her elbows, in order to see the stranger over the heaped and tangled mounds of duvet. She could see the top of a head, with wispy strands of hair standing up at all angles, lit by a faint green light. That didn't tell her much, except that this guy had relatively long legs, short hair, and possibly wasn't carrying either a brush or a mirror.

"Amber Lynn Crookshanks?" the voice repeated, a little uncertainly this time. If these men were government agents of some kind, did that mean they didn't have to stick to the script? Or had they really never thought what to do if someone didn't answer? Amber was curious enough to find out, anyway. Needing to know the answers was one of the qualities that had led to her former identity as the troublemaker. It turned out that when teachers said they wanted you to ask questions, they only meant ones they knew the answers to, and those were usually quite boring from Amber's point of view.

"No," she answered, trying to hide the smile. "Think you got the wrong number."

There was a long pause. Questions bubbled up in Amber's brain, starting with 'Is this his first day on the job?', and moving on through 'What name should I give?' and 'Am I going to get in trouble for this?', all the way up to 'Why is he using a green torch?'. And, a final afterthought, 'Who is this guy and what does he want?'

"Very well, Miss Crookshanks," a second voice joined the conversation before she could decide which question came first. "What name would you prefer to be known by?" It also said, without using anything so friendly as words, "I'm going to give you one more chance to cooperate, or face the consequences." She didn't imply anything about what those consequences would be, possibly due to the limited conversational bandwidth available through inflection, or possibly because she suspected Amber's imagination could furnish threats much more horrifying than a mere description of what might come next.

"Amber," she shrugged. "Only my father ever called me Lynn, and he's an inconsiderate cunt." While she was speaking, she pulled the top of the duvet towards her a little, collapsing mountains and valleys and giving her a better view of the strangers in her room. There was no light in here, so she couldn't make out much detail, but it seemed each of them had their own light somewhere to ensure she could see their faces. One orange light, one green, one blue, and one yellow. Four faces, including the man who'd first spoken, two women, and one she couldn't easily tell just from their face. The first guy seemed to be the oldest, somewhere around the same age as her parents, while the girl to Amber's left probably wasn't out of school herself. Or maybe she was a young-looking midget, it was hard to tell. Older than Amber, in any case. Four of them, arranged in a vague horseshoe around the foot of her bed.

"Well, Amber," the first guy took the lead again, now he wasn't wondering how to respond, "We think you might be–"

"Who are you?" Amber interrupted. "I mean, maybe you're sent by the government or something, but I'm pretty sure if you're just wandering into a kid's bedroom, you must be breaking some laws. You know what you're doing, because the alarm didn't go off. But you don't have Mom's permission to be here, because I didn't hear yelling and cussing."

"How do you know?" the young girl at the left end of the horseshoe cut in, "I mean, it could be something that all adults are expecting, but they're not allowed to tell you until you're old enough. Everybody might go through this, part of a global conspiracy, so she wouldn't be allowed to mention it."

"I guess," Amber conceded the point reluctantly, "But my nightie is a ratty one with holes in, that I wouldn't let her throw away. If there were adults coming to see me in the middle of the night, I'm pretty sure she would have made sure this one was in the wash, so I have to wear something decent. She'd die of shame if somebody saw me in this. I had to wonder when she said that, I don't think people are supposed to see your nightdress anyway, so I was trying to think what the exceptions were. But no, I don't think she knows you're here. Should I scream and we can find out together?"

"No!" the guy in green growled, startled, "You don't need to scream. We just want to talk to you, Amber. Why do you have to make it so hard?"