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where.
    “EMILY!” I screamed so hard my throat tickled.
    Which was when I felt something like a big warm fluffy blanket wrap itself around me.
    And then I was back at Rassmussem.

Chapter 4
    Hello. Remind Me Again Why I’m Here?
    C OMING OUT of a Rasmussem game is sort of like waking up alert—okay, okay, not that I have much experience with that.
    But what I'm saying is I wasn't confused, wondering where I was or whether I was dreaming. One moment I was at the window in that designer kitchen, with Emily about to look over and see me, the next I was being wrapped up in a cozy blanket, and then there I was on the total immersion couch looking up into my mother's I-will-be-brave/just-ignore-these-tears-in-my-eyes face.
    “Are you okay?” she asked. And right on top of that: “Is your sister okay? Did you see her?”
    I had known from the start that this first time, my coming and my going would be one right after the other, that I was—metaphorically speaking—simply testing the water by sticking my toe in. The fact was, I had needed to be reassured just as much as my mother that the Rasmussem equipment wasn't faulty and that I could return to reality at any time; so it was petty to blame my short visit on my mother's technophobia. That I had even found Emily so quickly in the intricacy of the game's many locales was more than anybody could have counted on.
    Still, I was frustrated, and for some reason Mom's forced courage grated on my nerves, and it was easier to be mad at her than to admit how helpless this whole situation made me feel.
    “I was ,” I snapped, “about to make contact with Emily.”
    Mom's smile wavered and she blinked rapidly, but her voice didn't give away anything as she said, “How did she seem?”
    And that wasn't nearly as easy a question as it should have been.
    That note Emily had left, that simple, scary note, sounding—I tried to shy away from the thought but wasn't quick enough—disturbingly like a suicide note...
    I had expected to see her languishing. Or in a frenzy of not-enough-time-to-think activity.
    I glanced beyond my mother to Ms. Bennett and Sybella. “She's in a kids' game. She was on a gondola. Reading a book. Being sung to in Italian.”
    Mom blinked some more and managed to squeak out, “Well, that sounds nice.”
    Ms. Bennett said, “It's Land of the Golden Butterflies. We're about to begin beta testing, so it's pretty complete. Emily and several of the others have been playing, intentionally making unusual choices so we could be fairly certain the game wouldn't crash or loop just because some little player decided to feed the unicorn food to the dolphins, or vice versa.”
    “There's unicorns and dolphins?” I asked.
    “That's what our focus groups indicate little girls like,” Sybella assured me. “And kittens. Not counting media tie-ins, those are the kinds of stuffed animals little girls most often ask for.”
    I must have rolled my eyes, because Ms. Bennett added, “And for the girls who prefer, there are also dragons and dinosaurs. We're trying to make it a pleasant experience for everyone.”
    Still... I thought.
    There's a big difference between what a ten-year-old finds pleasant and what an eighteen-year-old does. Isn't there? I mean, sure, I still have Merry the Christmas Moose on my bed, even though I'm fourteen. And, yeah, despite the fact that I claim she's a seasonal decoration, she never gets put away between January and November. But it's not like I sleep with her. Not usually. My attachment to her is more because of the memories of Grandma and Grandpa, who gave her to me, than because I fantasize about her being alive and able to talk and play.
    Ms. Bennett said, “It may have been opportunistic that Emily chose Land of the Golden Butterflies to...” She hesitated, because we weren't sure, not one hundred percent sure, what Emily's plan was. We could only surmise. And be anxious about it. Ms. Bennett finished, “...to fulfill her purposes.