Luka says nothing.

Finally, I break the silence. “No suggestions? No questions?”

“No to the first. As to the second, would it be safe for me to ask? Would it be safe for you to answer? Are you allowed to tell me about them? Jackson never did.” He doesn’t sound bitter, just curious, and a little concerned.

It’s a reminder of the whole cone-of-silence rule. No talking about the game or the Drau in the real world. I remember how earnest Luka was the first time he told me that.

Guess we’re breaking all the rules now.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s better that you’re not asking. I don’t want to break any rules.” Luka might not sound bitter, but I do.

Rules and rules and rules. The ones Jackson told me about. The ones he implied. The ones that make no sense because they keep all of us in the dark when bringing us into the light—illuminating us with knowledge—would surely serve our mission far better than having us stumble around without a clue.

“What rule did the guy Tyrone told you about break? What was bad enough to get him put on trial?”

Luka shrugs. “Tyrone didn’t say. Probably doesn’t know.”

I think about that for a few minutes, sorting through all the rules I’ve broken personally, all the ones I know other people have broken both in and out of the game. “You and Tyrone tried to sneak stuff out to try to prove the game’s real, right? And nothing happened to you. You and Jackson both talked to me about stuff outside the game, explained things, answered my questions. Rule breaking without consequences.”

“Okay. Yeah. So where are you going with this?”

Where am I going with this? “You and I are talking about it right now and we’re not getting arrested, or whatever. And when we were alone in the caves, Jackson told me a ton of stuff about the game and the Committee and the”—I lower my voice—“Drau. So if he’s in trouble for breaking a rule, it has to be bad. Worse than any of that.”

“Jackson told you stuff?”

Is he angry? Hurt? His tone’s completely neutral so it’s hard to tell.

“He told me about . . . them. About their planet. About our ancestors. But none of that’s the reason he’s missing, not that I can see, because he told me all of that before my first meeting with the Committee.” And, if anything, they’d been even more forthcoming when I questioned them. So if that was the rule he’d broken, why didn’t they discipline him back then?

“So it has to be something more recent,” Luka says. “Something that happened in that building in Detroit.”

Detroit.

Jackson shouldn’t even have been there. He’d already traded me for his freedom, so he should have been out of the game.

But he wasn’t.

He was there.

He took the Drau hit meant for me.

And now he’s gone and I have to find him before it’s too late.

CHAPTER FOUR

AT THE CORNER, LUKA HANDS ME MY BACKPACK AND SAYS, “My place is that way.” As if I didn’t know that. “You going to be okay on your own?”

Usually my hackles would go up at a question like that, but the way Luka asks, the understanding in his eyes, the fact that I know he’s as freaked out as I am, makes me accept his concern with grace. I bump his shoulder with mine and say, “My dad should be home pretty soon. You?”

“Won’t be on my own. My sister’s having this nail-and-hair thing tonight with a bunch of her friends.”

I can’t miss his aggrieved tone. “Tell me you aren’t the chaperone.”

“Are you kidding?” His eye-widening grimace screams horror and disbelief. “Ten twelve-year-old girls under my supervision? Not gonna happen.”

“I was babysitting by the time I was twelve. Do they really need supervision?”

Before he can answer, his phone vibrates. He drags it from his pocket and listens, his face going expressionless. He says, “Yeah,” and then, “Fine,” before he ends the call and looks at me. “My dad. I have to go.”

I nod. I don’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. We’re teenagers. We don’t always get a say in what we do or where we go. Our parents have expectations, make demands. It’s just the way it is. In this case, I think his dad’s demanding Luka supervise those girls. I guess I’m not a very good friend because I’m secretly smirking and I’m definitely not offering to come over and help.

As I round the corner of my street, a gust of wind catches a paper cup off the ground and sends it swirling along the road until it disappears around the side of the Sarkars’ garage. Usually September in Rochester means temperatures that start out high and drop quickly—you can go to school at the start of the month wearing a T-shirt, and by the end of the month you need a parka. Well, not quite. But close enough.

My arms prickle with goose bumps, and I walk a little faster. The chill feels all the more intense because I’m exhausted, like I’ve lived a year in the span of a day.

All I can think of is the way I held Jackson as he lay dying from the Drau hit.

I clench my jaw. Dying, not dead. He’s alive, and I’m going to find him.

Despite my resolve, my shoulders sag—not from defeat but from complete energy drain. I came back from Detroit fully healed . . . physically, anyway. But the fatigue I feel is in my bones, my heart, my soul. I’ve never been a fan of energy drinks, but for the first time, I can truly understand the appeal. Right now I either want to down about five of them or just crawl into my bed and sleep for a month.