Publisher Description

Discover the future awaiting Connor, Risa, and Lev after the events of the New York Times bestselling Unwind Dystology series by Neal Shusterman in this short story collection.

Connor Lassiter's fight to bring down Proactive Citizenry and find a suitable alternative to unwinding concluded in UnDivided. Now, Connor, Risa, and Lev are free to live in a peaceful future—or are they? Neal Shusterman brings back beloved characters for his fans to see what's left for those who were destined to be unwound

Author Biography

Neal Shusterman is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty award-winning books for children, teens, and adults, including the Unwind dystology, the Skinjacker trilogy, Downsiders, and Challenger Deep, which won the National Book Award. Scythe, the first book in his latest series, Arc of a Scythe, is a Michael L. Printz Honor Book. He also writes screenplays for motion pictures and television shows. Neal is the father of four, all of whom are talented writers and artists themselves. Visit Neal at StoryMan.com and Facebook.com/NealShusterman.

Review

"For fans of the series, this one will be hard to put down. A necessity where the Unwind dystology is popular, these stories are every bit as engaging and will leave readers satisfied but still hoping for more." * School Library Journal *
"Stories that will send fans over the moon and swiftly intrigue newcomers." * Kirkus Reviews *
"Highly satisfying for general readers with a taste for stories featuring all-too-plausible dystopias or ghastly medical experiments, as well as for existing series fans who want a little more." * Booklist Online *

Review Quote

"Stories that will send fans over the moon and swiftly intrigue newcomers."

Excerpt from Book

UnSchooled UnSchooled The schoolboy bursts through the door, the first one out of the building when the bell rings. He is expected to be at home fifteen minutes after school lets out. He''s not going home. As he races through the streets, signs of the Heartland War are all around him. Burned-out cars. Rubble from blasted clinics. Crosses in the ground marking spots where soldiers and civilians on either side died fighting for their cause. This is nothing new. It''s the world he knows, the world in which he grew up. He and his friends played in the burned-out cars when they were little. They played Lifers and Choicers with plastic guns and toy grenades, never caring which side of the game they were on, as long as they were on the same side as their best friends. But those childhood days are gone. Things are much more serious for him now. He turns down a side street that''s infested with pigeons by day and rats by night, crossing an invisible line that everyone knows even without being able to see it. It''s the line that marks the border beyond which law and reason cease to exist. It''s called the wild zone, and every city and town has one. No one who values their property or their lives will venture there. Police have more important things to deal with, and not even the warring militias will go there anymore. The Choice Army blames all the wild zones on the Life Brigade, and vice versa. Easier to point fingers than actually do something about them. But for the schoolboy this place and the people holed up there have a certain allure that he cannot explain. Certainly not to his parents. Whenever he''s late from school, he always has an excuse they''ll believe. If they knew where he really goes on those days, he can''t even imagine what they''d do to him. The buildings around him are mostly condemned. Angry spray-painted politics shout out from the bullet-marred bricks, and the windows are boarded over or just left broken. In a narrow alley he pushes open a side door that has only one hinge to keep it upright and steps inside. Immediately he''s grabbed by two teens waiting there. They push him hard against the wall--hard enough to bruise, but that''s okay. He knows the drill. He knows why they have to do this. They can''t be seen as weak. Even by him. Because there are other feral gangs that would use that weakness against them. "Why you always comin'' here, Schoolie?" one of his assailants asks. "Don''t you got better things to do?" "I''m here because I wanna be." "Yeah," says the other one. "And that''s all you are. A wannabe." Then, gripping his arms, they lead him deeper into the building. It used to be a theater, but the rusted seats are all stacked in the corner. The old carpet is ripped up and gathered into piles that the theater''s new residents use as beds. The place is scattered with knickknacks and bits of scavenged civilization, the way a bird might feather its nest with scraps of paper woven into the twigs. The theater is the living space for about forty feral teens. They lounge on scavenged furniture; they laugh; they fight. They live. It''s a very different kind of living than the "schoolie," as they call him, is used to. His life has no excitement. No passion. No adrenaline. His life is dull and in ordered control. They bring him to Alph. The others don''t know the kid''s real name. He''s just Alph, as in Alpha. He''s the leader of this band of ferals. The schoolie, however, knows his real name, back from the days when they would play in the war-torn streets. The kid is a year older, but he always protected the younger ones. Now that he''s feral, he does the same, on a different scale. Alph is a key member of what the media likes to call the Terror Generation. He''s got a scar on his face from a feral flash riot that gives him character and makes his smile impressively twisted. He''s everything the schoolboy is not. Right now, however, Alph isn''t being much of a terror. He''s being fawned over by a pretty, if somewhat filthy, feral girl. He doesn''t seem happy to be interrupted. "Schoolie, how many times do I gotta tell you not to come here? One of these days the Juvies''ll follow you, we''ll all be screwed, and it''ll be your fault." "Nah, the Juvies don''t care--they''re too busy chasing down ferals outside of the wild zone to care about the ones in it. And anyway, I''m stealth. I''m too smart to be followed." "So what are you wasting my time with today?" Alph asks, getting right to the point. The schoolie takes off his backpack and pulls out a brown paper lunch bag, but there''s no lunch in it. In fact, it jangles. He hands it to Alph, who looks at him dubiously, then dumps out the contents on a dusty table beside him. Other kids ooh and aah at the glittering pile of jewelry, but Alph stays silent. "It''s my mom''s," the schoolie tells him. "She doesn''t think I know the combination to the safe, but I do. I took just enough so that she won''t notice it''s gone for a while. You can fence it long before then." One of the others laughs--a buff kid named Raf, who could have been military if he hadn''t gone feral. "He''s got guts, that''s for sure." But Alph isn''t impressed. "It doesn''t take guts to steal from your own mother." Then he looks the schoolie in the eye. "Actually, it''s pretty pathetic." The schoolie feels heat coming to his face. He doesn''t know why he should care what some feral kid says to him, but he does. "You''re not gonna take it?" he asks. Alph shrugs. "Of course I''m gonna take it. But it doesn''t make you any less pathetic, Schoolie." "I have a name." "Yeah, I know," Alph says. "It''s a sad little name. Wish I could forget it." "I was named after my grandfather. He was a war hero." Although for the life of him, he can''t remember which war. Alph smiles. "Somehow I find it hard to imagine a war hero named Jasper." At the mention of his name, other kids snicker. "My friends call me Jazz. But you don''t remember that, do you?" Alph shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. Clearly he does remember, whether or not he wants to admit it. "What is it you want from me, Nelson? A pat on the back? A kiss on the forehead? What?" They all look at him now. Isn''t it obvious to them what he wants? Why does he have to say it? Just because he''s not feral doesn''t mean that he''s not part of the Terror Generation, too. Of course, no one calls Jasper a terror but his grandmother, and she always says it with a smile. "I want to be in your gang," he tells them. The mention of the word brings a wave of irritation that Jasper can feel like static electricity. Raf steps forward, speaking for Alph, who just glowers. "We are not a gang," Raf says. "We are an association." "A limited partnership," says someone else. And that makes a few others snicker. "Very limited," Alph finally says. "And we don''t have room for schoolies. Got that?" Jasper knows this is all a show. He knows that Alph likes him. But Jasper has to prove himself, that''s all. He''s got to show his value. So he goes out on a limb. He knows it might get him beaten up or worse, but it will definitely get Alph''s attention. He turns to the cavernous space of the old theater and says as loudly as he can, "How many of you can read?" That brings absolute silence. He knew it would. Mentioning one of the three R s can be a call to battle. There are some things you don''t say to ferals. Nobody answers him. Even if some of them can read, he knew they wouldn''t answer. Answering gives him power, and none of them want to do that. Not without permission from Alph. Jasper turns to Alph. "You need me. I can tell you what''s going on out there--the stuff you don''t see on TV." "Why the hell should ''out there'' matter to me?" Alph says, his voice more threatening than Jasper has ever heard it. "Because there''s this new thing I read about. It''s called unwiring, or something. They say it''s going to end the Heartland War, and it''s also going to solve the problem of ferals." Alph crosses his arms in defiance. "This war ain''t never gonna end. And we are not a problem. Ferals are the future. Got that?" Jasper holds his gaze. Alph''s hard exterior shows no signs of cracking. No indication that he''s going to give Jasper the slightest break. Jasper sighs. "Yeah, I got it, Kevin." The fury that comes to Alph''s face makes it clear that Jasper has made a critical error. "Don''t you ever call me that." Jasper looks down. "Sorry. I didn''t mean to...." Then Alph picks up something that''s on the table next to the tangle of jewelry. A snow globe--one of the many weird knickknacks salvaged from the world that existed before the Heartland War. This one shows a little gingerbread cottage magnified and distorted, submerged in water, and surrounded by swirls of fake snow. "Tell you what, Nelson," Alph says. "I''ll give you until the count of ten. You make it to the door by ten, I won''t smash your skull with this thing." "Alph, I--" "One." "Just hear me out!" "Two." Raf gets between them. "Better start running, dude." "Three." And so with no choice, Jasper turns to run. "Four." The others laugh. One kid tries to trip him, but Jasper jumps over his extended foot. "Five." He''s almost to the door. The door guards d

Details