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tour—her father had insisted she understand it was all a fake—they’d boarded the Skyway. As the little cable car bore them quietly above the crowds she’d at first enjoyed seeing everything from such a lofty vantage. But halfway across, dark demons had fluttered up around her, plucking at her clothing, threatening to wrench her from the car and hurl her to the pavement below. Screaming in terror, she had clutched the railing so desperately the ride operators had had to shut the machine down to get her off.
    Patrick Hayes did not take embarrassment well. Furious, he’d brought her home and suggested her mother take her to a shrink. Callie cried herself to sleep that night, and hadn’t seen her father since.
    The incident precipitated a spate of phobic attacks, and finally her mother dragged her to a doctor, then to a series of disagreeable therapists who smiled too much and asked too many questions. She remembered little of it now, mainly recalling the sickening dread that always preceded her appointments. The attacks had finally ceased on their own, and in retrospect, everyone blamed it on the trauma of her parents’ divorce. No one except Meg knew her fear of heights had lately returned—with frightening intensity. What would they say was the cause now? The trauma of a nowhere life?
    A shadow flicked across the path in front of her, bringing her up short. Overhead a large, pale flying-something disappeared beyond the canyon’s rim. It didn’t come back, though, so she moved on.
    “Can’t say life’s boring anymore,” she muttered. “Nothing like the last time, huh, Meg? Oh, brother! Just wait till I catch you!”
    Memory of her friend’s chirpy assurances made her boil. Meg had become such a flake since she’d dumped Jack. All this experience-life-as-an-adventure stuff—hang gliding, dream exploration, yoga, seeking after a higher consciousness. . . . If they hadn’t known each other so long, and if Meg wasn’t her only real friend, Callie would’ve dumped her long ago.
    How could Meg have known Alex all those months—lusted after him, for crying out loud—and not notice he wasn’t human?
    A fork in the road interrupted Callie’s thoughts and brought her to a stop. Angling off what looked to be the main path, a branch headed up a boulder-clogged cleft, looping around the rocks like a casually thrown rope. She pushed up her glasses and frowned. Deeply cut and shadow-swathed, that cleft held promise of gaining altitude swiftly. Which meant she might soon find herself in a place where the exposure would goad her slumbering acrophobia to life.
    The branch’s very lack of appeal, however, argued for its being the correct choice. Unless there wasn’t a “correct” choice. Maybe one route was simply shorter. Or offered different obstacles.
    Dared she stop to consult the manual? Whatever had screamed, she hadn’t heard it again. Nor had the flying thing returned. She glanced around, rubbing the tender welts on the backs of her hands. No sign of any of those cactus-grass things, either. Surely her captors wouldn’t begrudge her a rest and a drink and a handful of trail mix. If they’d supplied the food and water, they must intend her to use it.
    She settled cross-legged on a clear stretch of road and pulled out the water bottle and foil Snak-Pak, which turned out to contain a cupful of tan pellets.
    “I fed some of this to my rats just this morning!” she muttered, wrinkling her nose. Lifting a handful in mock salute, she tossed a few of the pellets into her mouth—and was surprised to find they tasted like oatmeal cookies. “Okay, so maybe it’s not rat food.”
    She crunched a few more, washed them down with the water, and then got out the manual and turned to the introductory material.
    Welcome to the Arena. We hope you enjoy your stay. As you will discover, we have engineered the playing field to conform to your homeworld parameters—
    Homeworld? Did that mean she was no longer on her