It’s dark during the long autocab ride from the secret DARPA lab at the Great Lakes Naval Station to Aaliyah’s halfway home for the demens. I climb out of the autocab, weary down to my bones. It speeds away, and the lights of the Home for the Temporarily Dizzy beckon me.

I feel dizzy, and it’s not all that temporary.

Wright is holding my family hostage.

This is the thought that’s looping in my brain, and it’s hard to concentrate. Wright is giving my kid sister lessons in how to knock out jackers. Or possibly kill them. Just the bad ones, though. I know exactly what Wright’s doing—I’ve been there with the lies and the manipulations and the horrible things they want you to do—and it’s tearing me apart inside to see that happening to Livvy.

Focus, Zeph.

I need to talk to Aaliyah. My intent is to have her hook me up in Jackertown, so I can get Wright the intel on Navarro. I’ll cook up some reason why I’ve changed my mind about going to a town full of jackers, but first I have to find her. It’s late—sometimes Aaliyah stays at the Home but not always. As I climb the steps, I pull out my phone to check the time.

It’s dead.

I sigh and stop at the door.

Wright and her band of jacker-kidnappers at DARPA returned my gun, which is tucked in the holster at my back, and I’m carrying the added feature of a tracker somewhere in my body, but why would they kill my phone? I’m hoping it’s just turned off. I hit the manual button, and thankfully, the holo mindware interface boots up.

The latest scrit message is from someone named Shadow. Keep in touch. Very cute—has to be Wright. I swipe that away, revealing dozens more scrits. Twenty-eight from Juliette and two from her father, all wanting to know what happened.

Because I ran out of a downtown chat-cast station and disappeared.

Crap.

The sign above the door—Turner’s Home for the Temporarily Dizzy—seems like an accusation now. I’ve got to be half demens to even try to make all this work. Step 1—go undercover in Jackertown and infiltrate Julian Navarro’s inner sanctum so I can feed intel to the goons at DARPA. Step 2—somehow find a way to free my sister and parents from said goons. Step 3—somehow keep my cover with Tiller so I can use that as a bargaining chip with Navarro. Step 4—strangle myself with the tangled web I’m weaving.

Not necessarily in that order.

Step 5 is probably lie more to Aaliyah, but all of it is giving me a headache.

I quickly swipe through the scrits from Juliette. They range from casual (scrit me when you’re done being a jerk) to sarcastically panicked (holy crap did my dad kill you and dump your body in Lake Michigan?) to genuinely upset (I swear to God, MacCay, if you were jerking me around about that date). There’s nothing explicitly about Sammi Gray, so maybe her father still thinks her secret lover is me.

I need some kind of app to keep track of all the lies I’m telling.

But then I realize that taking Juliette on a date solves all my problems. Tiller will think I’m on the job in winning his daughter away from Sammi Gray—ergo, I keep my job. And the gameplex I’ve got in mind—called Stomp for its live-action gameplay—is on the edge of Jackertown. It has a rep for mixing jackers and readers, so it’s the perfect place for Sammi and Juliette, and it’s great cover for a meetup with Aaliyah’s contact from Jackertown.

Boom. It’s a plan. Maybe. If Aaliyah’s home.

It’s only about 9 o’clock, plenty of time left in the night, as long as I can get Juliette out of the estate. I quickly scrit her. Snag an autolimo. Meet me at Aaliyah’s in half an hour.

Yes! the reply comes back immediately.

Don’t tell your dad, I scrit. Hopefully, she’ll understand that means somehow dropping a hint she’s with me, so he doesn’t panic and send Richards after us. Plus, if he’s monitoring her phone—which he almost certainly is—he’ll “know” where Juliette is and won’t come after us. We’ll take an autocab to the club from here.

Got it covered, she scrits.

Excellent. Way to be mesh. Then I scrit Sammi Gray with time and directions to the club. A response quickly comes back, Roger that. I pocket my phone and tentatively knock on the door, hoping Aaliyah doesn’t answer with a gun.

It opens right away as if she were standing next to it. There’s no helmet squashing down her silver afro and no gun, either.

“Well, look what the cat drug in.” Her eyes are wide.

I’m not sure what that means, but the shield is up, so we’re speaking out loud. “Hey, Aaliyah, I need some help—”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” She waves me in, her fluttering fingers impatient for me to get inside.

I hustle through the door.

She closes and locks it behind me.

“Thanks, I—”

“You look like you’re in one piece.” She’s cutting me off with her words and that scrutinizing stare, like she’s looking for gunshot wounds or something.

“I’m fine, Aaliyah.”

She mhm-hmms then says, “Who’s the girl?”

“I… what?” I just blink. What is she talking about?

She gestures toward the screen in the reception room—it’s frozen, but there’s a picture of Tessa and me perched on The Read’s chat-cast chairs, answering questions. “I didn’t expect to see you on a chat-cast, but Mr. Tiller gave me a heads up that you and this young lady were on the show.”

Oh. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy day. Protests. Chat-casts. That’s Tessa McIntyre. I guess she’s some kind of spokesperson for the Free Thinkers.” I swallow because I don’t want to talk about Tessa, and I can’t tell Aaliyah how I spent the rest of my day. Mostly, I need a good reason for changing my mind about Jackertown.

“I know, child,” Aaliyah says in that infinitely-patient way of hers. “I watched the program. What I’m asking you is who’s the girl?”

I just blink and stare. I have no idea what she means. “Um…” I’ve got nothing.

Aaliyah smiles a little, and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes carve deep into her smooth brown skin. “You ran after her, Zeph. And I know that look. That’s the look a man has when the thing he’s most after is walking out of the room.”

My mouth hangs open for a moment, but I really shouldn’t be surprised when Aaliyah sees right through me. “Yeah, she’s um… she’s someone I used to know.”

“Looks like you know her again.”

I scowl. Not only because Tessa wants nothing to do with me—not after I failed to reveal my jacker status to the world—but also because I must really suck at keeping my feelings about her under wraps. Which means everyone who watched that chat-cast knows… including Tiller. Crap.

“It’s not like that,” I start then hurry up with Aaliyah’s painfully skeptical look. “I mean, it is like that, for me. But she made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. It was… painful, okay?” I give her a glare. “Anyway, I’ve walked it off. Spent some time rambling around downtown, walking the lakefront. I’ll live.” That would have to do as a cover for the missing time, and judging by the sympathy on Aaliyah’s face, she’s buying it.

“All right then, child. I’ve got some fresh-baked muffins in the kitchen—”

“I’ve changed my mind about Jackertown,” I blurt out. Then I cringe because, yeah, that’s not random.

She’s back to having her dark eyebrows hike up on her forehead.

“I mean, I did a lot of thinking while I was walking around downtown.” I’m scrambling to have this all make sense. “And with the protests and everything, I just… I think I shouldn’t have turned down that offer quite so fast.”

Her eyebrows have fallen, but they’re knitted together now. “You’re quitting that job with Mr. Tiller already?”

“No! No, I need that, too,” I say quickly. “I still need his help to find my family. So you can’t say anything to him about this. I mean, he thinks I’m a reader, right? And truthfully, he’s trying to hook me up with his daughter. Which is completely horrible and awkward.”

Now Aaliyah has a wry smile on her face that’s physically painful for me. “So, this is about a girl.”

I hold in my groan of frustration. “Look, I’m taking Juliette on a date tonight, okay? Can we stop talking about my love life now?”

Her smile just grows. But if this gets back to Tiller, it would probably help.

I give her my best puppy-dog pleading look. “What I’d really like is to take that Hinckley guy up on his offer. I want to, I don’t know, check out what they’re doing down there. Get a feel for Jackertown. The gig with Tiller is really part-time. I could do another job during the day, while Juliette’s in school. I’ll take anything, I just… I want to figure out what I’m really about with all this jacker stuff.” I gesture somewhat vaguely to the world. I’m not even sure what I’m saying, but hopefully, Aaliyah will think I’m on some quest to find myself and my inner jacker, like all the demens she helps. Whatever will get me in.

She nods. “All right, baby. I’ll put a word in for you.”

“Thanks.” And the relief is real, the first lift of hope since I left my sister in Wright’s hands. “I’m taking Juliette to the Stomp tonight. She’ll be here in half an hour, but that’s Top Secret. You can’t tell Tiller. And if it just so happens that Hinckley wants to meet me there…” I’m hoping it’s not too much to ask.

“I’ll get right on it.” She gives my rumpled clothes a once-over. “And you should get something fresh if you want to impress that date of yours.”

“Right. Thanks.” I give her a smile that’s only partially forced then hurry up the stairs to change.

I wash up for good measure and avoid the mirror. I could probably stand a shave, but the Stomp is near Jackertown—if I look a little rough around the edges, it might keep me out of trouble. I take off my gun and tuck it in a drawer by the bed—no way they’ll let that into the club. Then I brush the dirt off my black pants until they’re club-worthy and check my pocket for my memory stamp. Still there, and I sigh with relief that Wright didn’t tamper with it. The shirts I’m wearing are another matter—both got grimed when I was tranq’d in the alley, and there’s no redeeming them. I pull those off and hustle down the hall to the community clothes closet. I’m standing there, staring into the clothing abyss, when light footfalls patter up the stairs.

Jiaying reaches the top, then jerks back, nearly dropping her plate of muffins.

I hurry to link into her head since she still thinks I’m a reader. Man, I hope those are for me. I haven’t talked to her since yesterday, which feels like forever ago. And I am, in fact, starving, if somewhat awkwardly half naked in the hall.

She gives a small smile and regains her bearing, stepping a little uncertainly across the carpet. Aaliyah says you need food and decent clothes for your date.

Aaliyah is a saint, and I so desperately need your help with the clothes. I pluck a chocolate chip muffin from the plate and gesture to the closet with it. Absolutely no idea where to start. I shove pieces of muffin in my mouth, glad I can talk mentally and chew at the same time. I can’t swallow it fast enough.

She sets the plate down and paws through the hanging shirts. So, you’re going to the Stomp?

Yeah.

She pulls out a deep blue t-shirt and holds it up against my chest. This goes very well with your eyes.

I grin around my muffin. Thanks. The sugar must be hitting my bloodstream because I’m suddenly feeling human again.

But too casual. She hangs it back up and flips through more. Aaliyah says a man named Hinckley will meet you there.

Excellent.

She keeps digging, her back still to me. She says he’s a jacker.

I see the twitch in her shoulders. Her fresh-apple mindscent turns sour.

It’s fine, I link to her, although that doesn’t seem to help. Hinckley’s a friend of Aaliyah’s, right? He’s a good guy. Now I’m wondering if Aaliyah told her I’m a jacker, but a quick scan of her thoughts says no.

Jiaying brings out a long-sleeved black shirt made from some high-tech fabric and holds it up to me. She won’t look me in the eyes. You should take your jacker scrambler. She bites her lip, staring at the shirt, but there’s turmoil in her head.

Hey. I cram in the last of the muffin, take her by the shoulders, and duck my head, so she has to look me in the face. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine. When she lifts her gaze, I see the bruise is still there, just more purplish-black. I manage not to stare.

Take the scrambler, she insists, the furrow in her forehead and the bruise on her cheek making her look tougher than I ever will. You saved those readers, and then you were on that chat-cast, and the jackers might have seen you, and they might find you, and this club with jackers is just too risky, too dangerous... She has that twitch again, and I hear an echo in her mind of Rutkowski’s sons’ distant laughter. Her eyes go wide, and an image flashes through it—one of the boys attacking her, only it’s not real. It’s one of the sims the boys played to torment her. She stumbles back into the closet then catches herself on the door frame. Sorry. I’m sorry. So sorry. She launches herself down the hallway away from me.

Jiaying! I stumble after her, catching up to her before she reaches the stairs. It’s okay. I reach for her arm, but she yanks away from me. I should have known better than to touch her.

She’s not running anymore, but now her back is up against the wall, and she’s just staring at me, wide-eyed and terrified inside her own skin. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.

Jiaying. I can’t figure out what’s happening. You have nothing to apologize for.

Then another rambling of thoughts plays rapid-fire through her head, and I finally understand. How she can’t go back to school because this will happen there. How each time the memories, what she has of them, dredge up, she’ll automatically be sharing them with anyone within mindreading range. Which, with the school’s thought-rumor mill, is basically the entire student body.

They won’t let me come back, she thinks, and there’s shame in it. I have to stay in isolation until… until…

Until she recovers enough to control it.

It’s better to stay here, I link, because it really is. I don’t want her going back where Rutkowski can find her. But this isn’t your fault. You know that, right?

She nods, but the thoughts inside her head are conflicted. Like somehow the mind abuse is something to be ashamed of. She knows Rutkowski & Sons are the bad guys, but now she’s the one who’s exposing everyone else—like the abuse is an infectious mental disease, and she’s afraid of hurting other people. Including me.

Don’t get hurt, Zeph. It’s almost a plea. And now she’s picturing the Stomp as wall-to-wall jackers like Rutkowski. Which, honestly, I can’t guarantee isn’t true, so I don’t get into it.

But the last thing she needs to worry about is me. I won’t get hurt. I promise. Her mindscent sours even more, so I quickly add, I’ll take the scrambler if it makes you feel better.

She nods fast, and her shoulders drop. Some of the anxiety spiking sourness through her mind dissipates. Then she shuffles back to pick up the muffins and the shirt off the floor. She returns to hand me the lump of black synthetic fabric. This one. For your date. Then she tucks the plate to her chest, bending over it like she’s folding in on herself, and she turns to go. She stops just before the top of the stairs. Don’t get hurt, she thinks again, like if she just says it enough, it will give me some kind of protective armor. Then she pads back downstairs.

The whole thing rattles me. It’s like I’m an anchor for her, although I’m not sure why, and I’m not used to people depending on me. Not like that.

But she’s not the only one.

I swallow down the last of the muffin and slip on my club-ready shirt. The sooner I infiltrate Jackertown and get Wright the intel she wants, the sooner I can get my sister free.