“It’s my fault,” I say, turning my face into the curve of his neck, clinging to him because if I let go I’ll be swept away by the raging current. “I should have checked if he’d been drinking. Should have driven Carly myself. Should have never fought with you because then you would have been there, you would have been driving her home, you—”

“Would have been the one lying in the hospital right now,” Jackson cuts me off.

I rear back and stare at him. “What?”

He cups my cheeks. “Miki, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but if you think the cops were talking about your dad, you’re wrong. It’s the driver that hit him who blew something like point one eight. He was on the wrong side of the road. Hit your dad head-on.”

“What?” I ask again, parroting myself.

“Your dad isn’t at fault. They were hit by a drunk driver. That’s why I said if I’d been driving Carly home at exactly that second, through that same intersection, I would have been the one the guy hit. I’d be the one in surgery instead of your dad.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending, and then understanding hits like a wave, crashing over me, dragging me under.

My dad wasn’t the one who was drinking.

I have a flashback of Carly when we were maybe ten, standing with her hands on her hips in my kitchen, laughing and pointing at me. When you assume it makes an ass of u and me.

I jump to my feet and back away.

The sounds from the hall—conversations, beeping, the hiss of an automatic door opening—expand and echo, too loud, like a power sander in my head. I clap my hands over my ears. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The air rasps my lungs like shards of glass.

The brown chairs turn bronze and glow too bright.

The red type on the posters on the walls turns to bloody claws, reaching for me.

Colors too bright. Sounds too loud.

The antiseptic hospital smell burns my nose.

No. Not now. It can’t be now.

Jackson gets to his feet, so slow.

“Miki!”

My name’s dragged out, the syllables pulled like taffy.

The world tips and tilts.

Jackson leaps forward, grabs my hand.

And we’re tumbling, tumbling, falling through nothing.

We respawn in a room with no floor, no walls, no ceiling. I mean, I know they’re here—I can feel the floor under my feet and when I stretch out a hand, I can feel the smooth, cool wall—but I can’t see them. Everything is just a bright, blinding white.

This isn’t the lobby.

Were we pulled directly on a mission?

Terror bites at me. I can’t do this—not now. I don’t know what shape Dad and Carly are in, don’t know if they’ll live or die, don’t know anything about their injuries. I’m a scattered mess. How am I supposed to fight Drau like this?

I’m a danger to Jackson, my team, myself.

Jackson grabs my hand and pushes me behind him, using his body as a shield. Except, am I behind or in front? Hard to tell when the room has no doors or windows, no beginning or end.

The light ramps down. A door appears. Not because it was always there and the light was making it hard to see. It literally appears, a piece of wall sliding open to reveal a rectangle of complete blackness.

I freeze. I know this place. I’ve been here before. In my nightmares. I stare at the dark doorway remembering the fear I felt, the certainty that danger lurked on the other side. Remembering that when I walked through, Lizzie was there with her Drau weapon in hand.

I’m about to signal Jackson to see if he thinks it’s okay to talk; then I realize of course it is. We have no weapons, so we’re not here to fight. And if the open door is any indication, whoever—whatever—brought us here knows we’re here.

Whoever brought us here . . . the Committee? How could they? How can they think I can do this now? I make a low sound—part moan, part howl.

Jackson pushes his glasses up on his head and turns to me, his expression intent. He grasps my upper arms. “Miki, I know this is rough—” He shakes his head. His jaw tenses. “I know your mind isn’t here. But we don’t get a choice. Do you understand? We don’t get a choice.”

I nod. Jackson shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around me. Only then do I realize how cold I am. I have the incongruous thought that he was wearing his jacket when we got pulled, but mine was on the seat beside me.

“You can do this,” he says. “We make it through. We go back. Your dad and Carly will be waiting for us.”

I stare at him, into his mercury-bright eyes. “Will they?” I whisper, not so sure. “And if they are alive when we get back, what shape will they be in?”

New guilt swamps me. I don’t feel like the accident was my fault now. Jackson disabused me of that. Now I feel guilty because I doubted my dad, blamed him, suspected him.

But he’s as much a victim here as Carly.

“They’ll be alive when we go back because they were alive when we left.”

Of course. We’ll respawn in the exact instant we left.

I notice he doesn’t make any comment about the shape they’ll be in. We have no way to know and there’s absolutely nothing either one of us can do about that.

“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I don’t trust myself to keep it together.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps.

“You cannot do anything for them from here. The only thing you can do is keep yourself safe. Focus on the moment, this moment, just this one. Then on the next one. Then the next. You can’t change the situation, so work with it. Think only about this.”