You’re supposed to be the big boss.”
Sam said nothing. The crowd hushed, ready to watch this one-on-one confrontation.
“You’re the big boss of the freaks,” Zil yelled. “But you can’t do anything. You can shoot laser beams out of your hands, but you can’t get enough food, and you can’t keep the power on, and you won’t do anything about that murderer Hunter, who killed my best friend.” He paused to fill his lungs for a final, furious cry. “You shouldn’t be in charge.”
“You want to be in charge, Zil? Last night you were running around trying to get a lynch mob together. And let’s not even pretend that wasn’t you responsible for graffiti I saw driving into town just now.”
“So what?” Zil demanded. “So what? So I said what everyone who isn’t a freak is thinking.”
He spit the word “freak,” making it an insult, making it an accusation.
“You really think what we need right now is to divide up between freaks and normals?” Sam asked. “You figure that will get the lights turned back on? That will put food on people’s tables?

Michael Grant