“I thought I was getting better at being pulled.”

“This is different. Better now?”

I think about that, running a quick checklist. The nausea I felt in the pizza place is gone, along with the panic and the dizziness. My limbs feel almost normal now, with just the faint vestiges of prickling dancing along my skin. But I still feel off.

“Better, yeah. I’m not about to hurl. And I think I can stand.” I straighten, and I notice the hesitation as he loosens his hold but doesn’t fully let me go. His arm stays looped around my waist.

Jackson supports me for another second as I straighten fully, then lets go and steps away from me. For a guy who swears it’s every man for himself, he takes an inordinate interest in my well-being.

“You’re taking care of me again,” I murmur.

“Again?”

“You’ve been doing it all along,” I say, remembering the first time I was pulled. It was Jackson kneeling by my side as I came to.

“Every man for himself,” Jackson whispers, but there’s something wrong with the words. They sound off, like he feels pain just saying them.

My eyes adjust to the dimness as I look around, expecting to see the grass, the trees, the boulders. Luka and Tyrone. But nothing is the way it should be. Jackson and I are standing in the flat bottom of what amounts to a giant, narrow bowl lined by row after row of seated figures that extend so high I can’t follow them all the way to the top. There’s a bit of light here at the bottom of the bowl, but it fades the higher I look. The figures are shadowed, faces and features obscured, but I know they’re staring at us. How can they not be? It isn’t like there’s anything else here to look at.

We’re in a stadium. A coliseum.

I feel like I’m on display. I’ve had to do a hundred kendo competitions in front of judges and crowds, but this isn’t like that. There’s something about this place, these people, that frightens me. I edge closer to Jackson, until my arm presses against his.

“When are they going to let the lions loose?” I mutter.

“Lions?”

“Haven’t you ever watched any shows about gladiators? Lions, tigers, bears . . .”

“That’s one of the things I love about you, Miki. You’ve got balls of steel. And a sense of humor.” He pauses. “So I guess that’s two things.”

His words make me freeze. Things he loves about me? He says that so easily, but I can’t quite decipher his tone. There’s an undercurrent there I don’t understand. Still, heat rushes through me, burning away the last of the chilly numbness in my limbs. I slant him a glance, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, one hip cocked, his head tipped back as he looks up and up and up. Or maybe his eyes—hidden by those perpetual shades—are closed and he isn’t looking at anything at all.

He seems relaxed. Truth, or a pose for my benefit, to make me relax? Hard to tell.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I turn full circle and stop dead when I see three figures set apart from the others, equally shadowed, equally eerie. They appear to be sitting on some sort of floating shelf, like three judges or like a commi—

“The Committee?” I whisper, remembering what Jackson said when we were sitting on the bleachers.

“Yes.”

He’s answering me, and he’s not telling me to be quiet, so I figure that it’s okay to talk, to ask questions. I cut an uneasy glance at the surrounding audience, which sits eerily still and silent, cloaked in darkness. “Why are we here? Where are Luka and Tyrone?”

“This isn’t a mission. Luka and Tyrone weren’t subpoenaed.”

He’s not whispering, so I don’t either. “Not a mission? Then what is it? Wait . . . you said subpoenaed. Like a trial? Am I on trial?”

Jackson says, “No—” at the same time as an unfamiliar voice intones, “You may address any questions directly to us.”

Us . . . us . . . us . . .

I clap my hands against my ears, but it doesn’t relieve the sensation of sound tunneling into my brain, my muscles, my bones. I hear the voice not only through my ears, but I feel the sound of the words vibrating through every receptor on my skin. I taste them on my tongue; I smell them. The experience is both terrifying and wondrous. It’s a little like Jackson talking inside my head that first day, only amplified by a thousand. A hundred thousand.

“Is—” My entire body cringes from the sound of my own voice. It’s like I’ve been hooked up to a loudspeaker that’s aimed directly at my brain. I’m thinking it and saying it and hearing it at a level far above normal, and the sensations gouge my senses like a thousand jagged knives.

“Too much?” the voice asks, and the intensity of the sound playing over my senses lessens.

“Um . . . thanks?” The sensations are softer now, blossoming inside of me, but muted, not painful like before. I take a second to get used to the weirdness of inhabiting my words, then offer the questions I tried to ask the first time. “Is that why I’m here? To ask questions?”

“If you wish.” Again, the sound fills my nostrils, bursts on my tongue, shimmers along my touch receptors. Weird, weird, weird.

“If I wish?” I laugh at the absurdity of that, and then stop abruptly at the experience of feeling my laughter in my toes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. This is all just a little overwhelming. And, yes, I wish to ask questions.” I’ve done nothing but wish for answers since the first day. Since the second Jackson started talking in my head.