My gut tells me there's something off about that girl.

The girl that, for the past couple months, has slept in my house, in the guest room across the hall from me. The girl who was found, unconsious and injured, in my backyard at the beginning of October, who said nothing that day except something that sounded like German, but wasn't. The girl who shut up in that language until she could speak English. The girl with no records, no past, leading police officers to believe that she escaped from an extremely troubled home and may have not been let out of the house at all. But abusive homes don't explain why the doctors that we took her to were baffled by her anatomy. Human, but not quite, they said. Proportions were slightly off, the blood slightly orange. They asked if they could study her. My mother and father said no.

All we know about her is that her name is Calypso, but everyone called her Callie. She was raised by a man named James whom she was very fond of. This man is now dead, according to her. She refuses to give details. But at night, I hear her sobbing for him.

Callie owns two necklaces, neither of which she takes off. One is a locket with a tree branch on it. The other has a bronze clock on it. She doesn't explain the significance of either necklace. When asked, she replies with, "They're reminders."

She also knows quite a lot. She took a test to figure out what level of school she should be in, and the evaluators all agree that in math and science, she was beyond college level, but very low in history or literature. One even told her, "Imagine what level you'd be at if you were completely fluent in English."

She just shrugged at that.

Callie is, surprisingly enough, fun to be around. Although she doesn't entirely understand English, she gets jokes and is really sarcastic. But underneath that sassy and fun personality, it can be pretty dark. She's hiding something.

It's not uncommon to find her curled up with a book, like now as I enter the living room. "Hi, Callie," I say.

"Hello, Mark. How are you?" she asks a little robotically.

"I'm good. How about you?"

"I'm okay. I spent the day-"

"Reading, I know. It's normal for you," I say, plopping down next to her. "Whatcha reading?"

She holds up the book. It's an American History textbook. I wonder how she's getting along with it. "I do not understand a few words, though," she admits.

"Like what?" I lean over to look at the page. She's surprisingly good at reading English, but the occasional word stumps her. Mostly names, but now she's pointing at massacre. Cheerful.

I pronounce it slowly, and she follows suit. Then I explain what it is. At the end of my explanation, her face is pale and she looks disturbed. "I think that I am done for today," she mutters, shutting the book and putting in on the coffee table before retreating from the room.

Have I mentioned that she's super sensitive? Especially to things involving death. I think she's traumatized or something. She's been taken to therapy, but she refuses to speak about her past.

I hear her run up the stairs and into her room. Don't worry, I think to myself. She'll emerge. Eventually.

I sit down on my bed, regretting that I asked. Of course. Of all the words to struggle with, it's massacre.

I reach for a small notebook that I always keep by me. I write the word down in English-or human, as we call it on Azera- and then the Azeran equivalent. Everyone thinks this notebook is a diary. I view it more as a grammar book/ dictionary. I write the word in Azeran twice-once in the Azeran alphabet, and once in the English alphabet-then I write the English word below it.

I shut the book and push it away. Then I unclasp my locket and open it.

The locket was a gift from my friend, Henri, who would come to the facility to deliver presents to all the young Keepers. Inside is one of my parents' wedding photo and a picture of my sister. I had worn it the day the Training Base collapsed, and Simon didn't take it from me on Marix, so I brought it to Earth with me. A destination I never intended to be.

If it weren't for Simon forcing me through the portal with a gun, I wouldn't be here. As it were, it was a total crap shoot where I'd land. I could've been in an another dimension.

Simon's main goal is Tura. There are three rifts-hole in our dimensions-and they're all connected. Two are on Earth, one here in Pennsylvania, and the other in Australia. The third is on Marix, an asteroid orbiting Azera. These rifts are small, and barely passable. On Marix there's actually a machine built on the rift that opened the it even more-so much that you could use it as a gateway between dimensions. The only issue? It doesn't work in our dimension. At least, it didn't.

I'm the one who can worm my way from Marix to Tura. Once I do, the doorway is open for everyone. Because of this, I've come to the conclusion that I was made a Keeper, not because my father was one, but  because I was to be a key keeping the machine locked, never to know about it, keeping it shut from everyone on this side.

See, on Azera, there's an elite army trained from the age of six. Every ten years, five young children are picked for their intelligence-which is determined at a young age and is like an IQ- and parentage. When they arrive at the underground Training Base, they receive a necklace with a charm. The charms vary from person to person, and the charms are very special. They're actually bio-chips, and they form a link with our brains and give us a power. I'm a Time Keeper- I can see into the future, the past, and actually time travel. Another Keeper in my group-Simon-had hypnosis, which he used to murder his own Guardian, frame it as a suicide, and escape the base to create his own army and create hell on Azera. Just because he wanted me. Just because he wanted his own dimension. One that already exists.

According to Simon, I'm the second-smartest being in this dimension, him being the first. I was assigned Time Keeping for this reason, and by the time they realized Simon was a better fit, it was too late. Simon forced the truth out of the Head Trainer, Matilda, after overhearing about the portal. And I guess that he decided then and there that he wanted that dimension for his own, being the megalomaniac that he is.

I don't care much for Tura-from what my Turamese friends Amacus and Alexa told me, it's a pretty bad place to live. And all they sent us to protect their planet was the king's eldest children. It's almost like they expect us to fight for them. But it's their home, and Simon wants to rip it away from the Turamese. And I can't in good conscience let that happen. Maybe that's why Azera chose to fight. I don't know. I'm missing pieces of the story. I don't know how the Turamese first made contact with us, I don't know how the long the portal's been there, and I don't know why we choose to stay in this war. I don't know.

Since landing on Earth, I've decided to move in with the family that found me. Or, more accurately, they decided to take me in. The Everetts are super nice, and I want to tell them what they've taken on. But I haven't for two reasons: If it leaks out, I'll be wanted for study constantly. Also, once Simon figures out that I'm not on Tura, he'll come looking for me, and blending in and keeping to myself is crucial to prevent him from finding me. My foster family may try to protect me as much as possible, and maybe even some of Earth's many armies, but I don't take any chances. Incognito is best for now.

It's a small family that I live in. Two parents and their son Mark, who's my age. His mom, Emily, is one of the most amazing people I have ever met, and reminds me an awful lot of James. And whenever I have one of my moments, she's immediately there to comfort me. Like now.

"Honey? Mark told me that you had a moment. You okay?"

"Yes, I-I am fine," I say, snapping shut the locket.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, come in."

She opens the door slowly and sits down on the bed next to me. Her grey-streaked blonde hair falls out from behind her ear and she tucks it back. Although only 43, Emily looks much older. But she has an undeniable kindness in her heart-shaped face and blue eyes, and you can see the not-so-subtle shadow of a beautiful young woman that she must've been some time ago.

"Callie, I've been meaning to talk to you for some time," Emily says, straightening her skirt. "About your-guardian, as you call him."

"You mean James," I say slowly.

She nods, her eyes downcast. "Yeah. James. What was he like?"

I wince. James's death is still a fresh wound for me. He had been murdered at the hands of one of Simon's hypnotized cronies, but he claims that he had nothing to do with it. And that was the same morning as when I was forced through the portal.

"Why?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm curious."

"Everyone's curious about my past. And I want to talk about it not."

"Why?" she shoots back.

"It's...painful. But I was happy."

"When did James pass away?" Emily asks.

I don't answer for a moment. Finally I say, "The same morning I came here."

"That recent, huh?"

"Recent?" I repeat.

"Not that long ago," she clarifies.

"It was two months ago."

"Still. In regards to losing a loved one, it's pretty recent. You do consider him a loved one, right?"

"I loved him, yes," I say dully.

"But while he was alive, what was he like?"

I think for a moment. "He was kind, funny, sarcastic, very protective, um, had a one...one mind-is that right?"

"One track mind?" she supplies gently. I nod.

"You're not here to talk to me about him, are you? You want to know about my past."

"Callie, we're concerned about you. None of us understand your past. Callie, I'd like you help you out."

I want to tell her, I do. And I almost spill the beans then and there. But I don't. Instead I turn my back to her. She sighs and leaves.

I add "recent" to the notebook, then flop back onto the pillows, fighting the tears that threaten to spill down my face at the mere mention of my beloved Guardian.