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month you need a parka. Well, not quite. But close enough.
    My arms prickle with goose bumps, and I walk a little faster. The chill feels all the more intense because I’m exhausted, like I’ve lived a year in the span of a day.
    All I can think of is the way I held Jackson as he lay dying from the Drau hit.
    I clench my jaw. Dying , not dead . He’s alive, and I’m going to find him.
    Despite my resolve, my shoulders sag—not from defeat but from complete energy drain. I came back from Detroit fully healed . . . physically, anyway. But the fatigue I feel is in my bones, my heart, my soul. I’ve never been a fan of energy drinks, but for the first time, I can truly understand the appeal. Right now I either want to down about five of them or just crawl into my bed and sleep for a month.
    But I can’t. I have to figure out a plan, figure out a way to get to Jackson. On my very first mission, the one to Vegas, he told me he was going to watch out for me and just hope it didn’t get him killed. I remember what I said in return: Eight years of kendo. I won’t let you get killed.
    I meant those words, then and now. I’m going to find him and I’m going to bring him home. I just need to figure a way to get in front of the Committee to argue his case. I know Jackson could communicate with them when he was in this reality. There must be a way I can, too.
    I tip my head back and whisper, “Requesting an audience here, guys. Please.” I swallow. “Please.”
    Then I climb the porch steps and drag my key out of my bag . . . and drag . . . and drag . . .
    My movements are too slow, like I’m pulling my key through syrup. All my senses explode: sounds too loud, colors too bright. The weight of my backpack on my shoulder is like a ten-ton boulder. The cold air pricks my skin like tiny needles, digging deep. Sensation overload.
    I’m being pulled. Panic surges. Again? So soon? I can’t. I don’t have it in me to fight again. Not yet.
    Then another possibility hits me and the panic morphs into anticipation. The Committee. They must have heard me. I guess it was the please that did it.
    Something bounces off the top of my foot, a sharp flick that quickly dulls into numbness. I glance down to see that it’s my key ring. My backpack slides from my nerveless grasp and lands beside my foot with a thud.
    The world tips and tilts, my front door falling slowly to the side. Or maybe I’m the one falling.
    Dizziness slams me and I sink down onto my knees, arms outstretched, palms planted flat to break my fall. But I don’t hit the wood slats of the porch. I hit grass, soft and long. I look up, knowing what I’ll see: a wide, grassy clearing surrounded by trees.
    I’m in the lobby.
    “No,” I yell. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in front of the Committee, getting answers that will help me find Jackson.
    Instead, I’ve been pulled to fight the Drau. Another mission.
    What happened to rest and recovery?
    Rage spills toxic waste in my soul.
    That’s one thing the game’s done for me: pushed through the muting gray fog that’s shrouded my emotions since Mom died. Anger and pain always broke through the gray, but now they’re so bright and sharp, they make me gasp. Be careful what you wish for.
    I let my head fall forward between my outstretched arms, fighting the urge to just lie down and say, “No more.” The black strap around my wrist snares my gaze. My con. It just appears whenever I get pulled. The con measures health in the game—a portable life bar. Right now it’s glowing dark green, shot with swirls of blue and turquoise and light green, sort of like the black opal Kelley’s dad brought her from Australia when his company sent him there for a month.
    The more damage I take in the game, the more the green will bleed to yellow, then orange, then red.
    Full red, I’m dead.
    I shove that thought to the bottom of the dark well that holds all the terrors and monsters that would love to crawl