I focus on it. Dissect it. Can’t quite put my finger on what it is that’s bothering me. I just feel off, like I didn’t respawn here quite right, like my molecules aren’t totally in sync. It makes me think of a transporter failure in an old Star Trek episode. Beam me up, Scotty! The thought sparks a really inappropriate urge to laugh. My nerves are wound so tight that one more turn of the screw will make them pop.

Jackson and Luka check another door. Same result. We move down the hallway, Lien and Kendra bringing up the rear. Every door we try is locked. The rooms beyond the doors are dark. And with each step, the music gets a little louder.

We turn a corner and a wave of vertigo nearly knocks me to my knees. I slap my hand against the wall and close my eyes. Doesn’t help. Everything still feels like it’s spinning, or maybe I’m the thing that’s moving. I press harder against the wall, using it as my anchor, focusing on the rough texture of painted brick beneath my fingers. When I open my eyes, I see that whatever hit me hit us all. Except maybe Jackson. Hard to tell with him. He always looks like a hard-ass.

I take a step forward, keeping my palm flat to the wall for balance, sliding it from brick to the cool metal of a bank of lockers.

Wait . . . the lockers are a different color. They were beige. Now they’re dark blue.

A color shift shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

My stomach gives this weird little flip.

I shoot another look at Jackson. His jaw is set, his attention focused. Even though I can’t see his eyes behind his mirrored lenses, I can sense him scanning the perimeter, always vigilant. Whatever’s setting me off, he feels it, too.

Or . . . maybe he already knows what it is. Did the Committee warn him, give him a heads-up about what to expect? If they did, why didn’t he tell me?

Jackson points at Luka and Tyrone. They move ahead, check the next few doors, and we follow behind.

The music’s louder, closer. I can hear voices and laughter.

People. The dance. The auditorium.

It’s just along this corridor and to the left.

How do I know that?

I close my eyes for a second, not wanting to admit what I’ve already figured out: I know where the dance is because I’ve been in that auditorium hundreds of times, because I walk these halls almost every day.

We’re not at the high school we respawned at.

We’re at Glenbrook.

The Drau are at Glenbrook.

At my dance. With my friends. People I love.

But they can’t be here. That’s the whole point of the game. To keep them away.

My skin crawls and I turn to look behind me, certain I’ll find a Drau, a dozen Drau, a hundred. But there’s only Kendra and Lien.

I shake my head and spin back, muscles tightening, ready to sprint. Jackson grabs my upper arm, stopping me as I take a step forward.

I gasp. I don’t even know what I was thinking. That I’d run into the dance, weapon cylinder drawn and blazing, kendo sword at the ready? I get myself under control, holding tight to the knowledge that while my school may be offering the backdrop, my friends and teachers are safe. We’re here but not here. Same with the Drau. We’ll pass through the throngs of people, but they won’t see us. And they won’t see the Drau, won’t be subject to their attack. Just like the people we passed in Vegas. The tension knotting my muscles eases a little.

“Luka,” Jackson says, no longer bothering to stay silent. “Scout the dance.”

“They know we’re here?”

“Just like we know they’re here.” Jackson snags Luka’s paintball visor off his vest. “Leave this.”

Luka turns his hand palm up in a what’s-up gesture.

Jackson cocks his head in Tyrone’s direction and says, “Tyrone might need it. Student-only rule.”

The rule Ms. Smith made that says only Glenbrook students are allowed at the dance. Kendra and Lien will probably be able to sneak through thanks to their costumes. It’s kids at the ticket table, not teachers. Usually no one checks ID.

But Tyrone’s wearing regular clothes and he looks older than high school. He’ll definitely get stopped at the door.

He takes the visor and slips it on, leaving it on top of his head for now. Not much of a costume, but better than nothing.

Then it hits me: Why does he need a costume? No one can see him. No one can see any of us.

“He doesn’t need a costume,” I point out. “It’s like Vegas, right? We’ll sail through the crowd.” Unseen. Unnoticed. In an alternate version of Glenbrook High. “He doesn’t need a costume,” I repeat, the words tense and low.

Jackson’s lips thin as he reaches over and moves Luka’s weapon cylinder from his holster to one of the big, baggy pockets at the front of the vest he’s wearing.

“Go,” Jackson says. Then to me, “Yeah, he does.”

We hang back and watch as Luka strides toward the auditorium doors.

Maylene George is sitting behind the ticket table, along with Kathy and Marcy. I stare at them, at Marcy, wondering if she knows, if she’s one of them.

I expect Luka to walk past, unseen. Like Vegas.

But this isn’t like that at all.

Actually, I don’t expect it to be. Not anymore. Something’s different. Something’s very, very wrong.

Maylene tips her head and smiles as he approaches. “Hey, Luka. I thought you were bringing Sarah and Amy.”

Maylene can see Luka. She knows he’s here. Which means he’s in the same reality as she is.