My thoughts are a series of cyclones churning destruction wherever they touch down, then moving on, spinning out of control.

From the corner of my eye, I see the keys go around again. The leather fob angles toward me so I can read the word on the round medallion at the center: JEEP.

And then everything stops. No confusion. Just clarity.

Those keys in Luka’s hand: they aren’t Luka’s; they’re Jackson’s. I remember him throwing them down on the table when we first settled in the booth.

My gaze shoots to the table. Four plates. Four.

I stop dead, despite Carly’s less-than-gentle urgings toward the door.

“Find Jackson,” Carly orders Luka. “Where is he, anyway? We need to go. Like, now.”

Go. We need to go. We need to! . . .

“Wait!”

I break from Carly’s hold and turn to stare at her. She just said his name. Jackson. She remembers him. Remembers that he was here at the pizza place with us. My heart stutters, then starts to race double time. He’s not here now, but . . . he’s not dead.

Because if he were, Carly would have no memory of him at all. That’s what happens when you die in the game. Your entire existence from the moment you were conscripted gets wiped out as if it had never been.

When Richelle died in a Drau-infested warehouse in Vegas, everyone in her real life forgot all their interactions with her during the months from the time she was first pulled to the time her con went red. According to her memorial page, she died seven months before I even met her.

The only people who remember those months are the ones who knew her in the game—me, Luka, Tyrone, Jackson. For some reason, our memories of her remain.

If my con turns full red, I’ll go back to the moment where I’m lying in the road, my blood smeared on the truck’s bumper and pooling underneath me, warm and sticky. I’ll go back to my heart beating slower and slower until it stops. That will be the moment that all I am in this reality ends. My friends, my family will all forget everything about me from that second on. Like I’d never lived the intervening days, weeks, months at all. Not even memories of me from that time left behind. Just . . . nothing.

For Jackson, his life would be snuffed years ago when he died in the real world in a car crash with his sister at the wheel. In that fraction of a second somewhere in the past, he would cease to exist.

That would mean Carly never would have met him.

He wouldn’t have been here with us, out for pizza.

So while Luka and I would remember him from the game, Carly wouldn’t even know his name.

But she does. In fact, she thinks he’s here somewhere, not gone at all.

A tiny, terrifying seedling of hope unfurls. I clutch Carly’s forearm. “Did—” My voice is little more than a croak. I swallow and try again. “Did you see where Jackson went?”

“Would I be asking Luka to find him if I had?” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “It’s like he disappeared into thin air. Check the can,” she orders Luka.

My gaze shoots to his. He smiles a little, holds up the keys, and jangles them. This is what he wanted me to figure out.

Jackson’s alive.

Tears sting my eyes, threatening to fall. I didn’t cry when I thought he was dead, but now that I think he’s alive I’m about to collapse in a sobbing heap. I bite the inside of my cheek hard until I feel like I can keep it together.

Jackson’s alive.

Which doesn’t make sense because his con was red. He was dead.

I need to find him.

“We need to find him,” Luka says.

“That’s why I told you to check the can,” Carly says.

But Luka wasn’t talking to her. We need to find him, which means I need to get Luka alone so we can figure out a plan.

“Luka! Go check.” Carly sounds exasperated. “I’d do it but, hey”—she waves her fingers in the general direction of her fly—“missing some equipment here. . . .”

“He’s not—” With a shrug, Luka gives up and heads off to do as Carly ordered.

But we both know Jackson isn’t in the little boys’ room.

He’s . . . somewhere else.

CHAPTER TWO

LUKA UNLOCKS THE DOOR OF THE JEEP.

“Miki, you take shotgun.” Carly the magnanimous. “Last thing we need is you having another panic attack.”

“Bossy, much?” I mutter, mostly because she expects it. Yeah, she’s bossy and unpredictable, argumentative, pissy, sometimes even bitchy. But she’s also the friend who steps up when I need her, imagined wrongs forgotten, arms ready to hold me up when I feel like I’m going to fall.

She smiles at me and I want to hug her—for sacrificing herself to the cramped space of the backseat, for being safe and here, in the real world. For being exactly who she is, the friend who’s been there for me through it all.

So I do. I throw my arm around her shoulder and rest my cheek against her hair. She rubs circles on my back.

“I know,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

“Thank you,” I whisper back. “For always being there.”

She hugs me hard. “Right back at you. BFFs, right? Remember when I got my tongue pierced? You sat there next to me and held my hand.”

“And almost threw up.”

“All the more reason that your attendance at the event was valiant.” She kisses me on the cheek and steps back.

“Hey, I was just about to get in the group hug.” Luka waggles his brows.