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 free and gnaw at my sanity.

Steer the nightmare. That’s what Jackson told me to do. Control what I can and let go of what I can’t.

It’s the letting go part that doesn’t come so easy.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be taking Jackson’s advice to heart. Look where it landed him.

I laugh, a dark, ugly sound. I feel wild and out of control, and hate every second of that. I don’t want to be this girl.

I pull out the bag of tricks Dr. Andrews, my grief counselor, taught me: Breathe. Visualize. Focus.

Reaching deep, I plumb my dwindling well of determination.

I push through the pain and uncertainty and fear.

Then I get to my feet, expecting the nausea and the headache that’s accompanied the jump before, but other than a slight pressure at the base of my skull, nothing. Guess I’m a pro now. Not exactly a thrilling thought.

Incoming.

The sound tunnels into my brain, my muscles, my bones, vibrating through every nerve in my body. I taste it, smell it. Crazy weird, the way the Committee communicates. Not every player in the game gets to hear them, just the team leaders. Lucky me.

Kendra’s the first to arrive. Her eyes are wide, blond ringlets standing out at crazy angles, arms folded across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. It’s a pose I recognize, one I employ often. Doesn’t really help when I try it. I wonder how it’s working for her.

“No.” She shakes her head wildly as soon as she sees me. “I can’t. I can’t. Not yet.” Her words tumble together in a rush. “Why did we get pulled again so soon? I don’t want to do this. I don’t think I can do this again. Miki—” She breaks off and just shakes her head.

What makes you think you get a choice?

That’s a Jacksonism. I keep it to myself. He got away with the whole I’m-a-cocky-asshole vibe. Looking back, I think that in a way, his attitude kept the rest of us from losing it. I doubt I’d pull it off half as well.

Kendra looks around and when she speaks again, her voice is even higher, the words tripping out faster. “Where’s everyone else? Why are we alone? Don’t tell me they didn’t make it—” She runs at me and grabs my arm. “Lien,” she whispers.

I put my hand over hers. “It’s okay. Lien’s okay. She made it. Everyone did.” Well, not everyone. Just everyone on our team of five. It’s a gift I’ll gladly accept, but a bittersweet one. There were too many shattered bodies that we left behind at the end of the last mission. We had no choice. But that doesn’t make it right and it doesn’t make it any easier to live with.