That evening, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room and try on a few different outfits. I turn around, modeling a light green dress with spaghetti straps. I bought it on impulse a few months ago after seeing it in a store window. I’ve never actually had the chance to wear it. “Chloe?”

She materializes on my bed. “Yes?”

“What do you think about this dress? Is it too revealing?”

Chloe tilts her head. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“The neck is a little low.” Not that I have much to show. I haven’t filled out like some of the other girls in my class. “What about the color?”

“Red is more popular this year. But green goes better with your coloring.”

My avatar knows more about fashion than I do. I let out a small sigh. In moments like these, I really wish I had a female friend. One with feelings and opinions that aren’t based on data algorithms.

I comb my hair out, letting it spill over my shoulders. Maybe I’ll wear it down tonight. I roll on a bit of pink lip gloss. When I look into the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. For once, I’m not a Mindwalker. Just a normal girl having a night out. The feeling is unexpectedly pleasant, like a spot of warmth in my chest.

Chloe smiles a sly, teasing smile. “Going out with someone special?”

I give a start. It’s probably just one of the programmed questions in her repertoire, a response to a visual analysis of my facial expressions and posture, but there are times when she seems eerily perceptive. I open my mouth to say no, then pause. “Sort of.” Before she can ask anything else, I add, “You can deactivate now. I’m heading out.”

“Have fun!” Chloe nods and vanishes with a shimmer.

When I walk down the stairs, Greta’s vacuuming in the living room. Or rather, she’s reading on the couch while a basketball-sized black orb does the work, humming up and down the length of the floor. She looks up and closes the holoscreen. “Where are you off to?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“A party. At Ian’s place.”

She raises her eyebrows. She’ll probably tell Dr. Swan, who’ll undoubtedly be pleased to hear that I’m doing normal teenager things. Though he might be less pleased if he knew who I was going with.

I take the car to the Underwater Café, where Steven waits, sitting on a bench outside, with his arms crossed over his chest. When I get out of the car and wave, he stands up. “Hey, you ready to—” He freezes, mouth half open.

I fidget. “Is it too much?” Now that I think of it, I’m probably overdressed. Most people there will be wearing T-shirts and jeans.

“It’s fine.” Suddenly, he can’t seem to look directly at me. “Let’s go.”

***

Ian lives at the top of a high-rise. From outside, it looks like a sleek black obelisk crowned by a huge, translucent jewel. The jewel, of course, is his Plexiglas-walled penthouse apartment. Usually, at night, the penthouse is lit up with a clear white light. Now it’s dark, except for flashes of neon blue and red from within.

Steven walks beside me, hands shoved into his pockets, as we enter the lobby. It’s all polished pink marble. He whistles. “This guy must be loaded.”

“His mother’s a very wealthy drug researcher.”

“She’s okay with him throwing these parties?”

“She’s away at work. And she’s his only parent. Well, I suppose he has a father, but—” I give an awkward shrug. “I don’t really know the situation.”

Steven snorts. “Maybe he’s a clone.”

My shoulders stiffen.

“Hell,” he continues, “these days, you can’t even step inside a mall without seeing those NewVitro ads. ‘Hey there, all you rich Type One ladies and gents! Why play the genetic lottery and risk popping out some defective loser when you can get a copy of your own perfect DNA? Just change the sex chromosomes or the eye color or whatever and call it individuality!’ It’s ridiculous. You’d think humans have forgotten how to—”

“That’s my friend you’re talking about,” I snap. “Even if he were a clone—which he’s not—that remark would be incredibly offensive.” I stare straight ahead, jaw clenched.

He blinks a few times. I expect him to make another wiseass remark, but he just says, “Sorry.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Never mind,” I mutter, and step into the elevator, which is as large as a normal person’s bathroom and has mirrored walls. The numbers light up as it glides to the top floor, and I start to feel embarrassed at my own reaction. I really should have better control.

“I am sorry,” Steven says. “Sometimes I shoot my mouth off without thinking. I mean, I do think those ads are stupid, but I don’t have anything against clo— How should I say it?”

“There really isn’t a politically correct term,” I murmur. “Though I hate hearing people referred to as clones. It’s so … dehumanizing.”

“I won’t say it, then.”

My shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

The elevator continues to move up.

“Can I borrow your scarf?” Steven asks.

Confused, I hand it to him. He wraps it quickly around his face and neck, covering his mouth and nose as well as his collar. I realize he doesn’t want to be identified.

I wonder if I’m being cruel, dragging him here.

Ian buzzes me in, and the doors slide open to reveal a living room crammed with people milling around with drinks in their hands, talking and laughing. A heavy bass beat thumps, vibrating in the floor and in my bones. I’m not exactly overdressed, just very out of place. I see a lot of leather and fishnet and miniskirts so short that I feel silly for worrying that my dress was too revealing. Next to some of these outfits, it’s as modest as a nun’s habit. Claustrophobia jangles my nerves as we push deeper into the apartment. The onslaught of sensory stimuli leaves my brain burning like an overheated engine.

Ian loves things like this. It’s how he deals with stress. I retreat deeper into myself and shut out the world—he drowns himself in crowds and music.

A boy bumps into me, nearly spilling a drink down the front of my dress. “Whoops.” He laughs. “Sorry.”

“Watch it,” Steven snarls at the boy, then hooks an arm through mine. There’s something protective, almost possessive, in the gesture. His pale blue eyes dart back and forth, scanning the crowd as we make our way through the crush of bodies.

In front of me, a man with the head of a gray wolf is dancing, mouth open in a toothy grin. A gasp leaps from my throat.

“You okay?” Steven asks.

A half second later, realization clicks into place; it’s a holomask. They’re all the rage at parties, or so I’ve heard, but it’s the first time I’ve actually seen someone wearing one. “Yes,” I say, breathless and a little embarrassed. I look around. Nearby, a girl with the head of a white rabbit is holding a beer, chatting and giggling. The mask’s mouth moves with eerie realism. As I watch, she takes a pill and washes it down with a swig of beer.

I spot Ian in the kitchen, a bottle in one hand. “There he is,” I tell Steven. “I’m going to go say hi.”

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” Steven mutters.

Of course. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. I suppose I can’t blame him. But at least here, surrounded by people, he’s not liable to kill himself. “It’s down the hall.” I tug my arm free and maneuver my way into the kitchen, which is large and modern, all marble tile and gleaming chrome. There’s a table covered with bottles—in a wide variety of sizes and colors—a bowl of punch, and a tray of nachos drenched in gooey orange cheese and guacamole. “Ian!” I wave.

Ian turns toward me. “Lain.” He smiles, but his eyes are glazed—the same shell-shocked look I remember from the other day. “So, what do you think?”

“Of the party? It’s … intense.”

“Yeah.” He rocks on his heels, then takes a swig of whatever’s in the bottle. “You know, parties usually relax me. But it’s not working tonight. No matter how loud I crank up the music, I can still hear my thoughts.”

I frown. I can see his pulse fluttering in his throat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He keeps rocking. A sheen of sweat gleams on his brow.

“You haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He laughs. It’s not his usual warm laugh—it’s too sharp, too high-pitched. Then he leans closer to me. “I’m really glad you could make it tonight,” he murmurs. I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. He makes an odd, choked sound. “You’re the only real friend I’ve got. You know that?”

I tense. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m not sure I like it. “What do you mean? You have lots of friends.”

“They don’t understand.” His brown eyes mist over. He lets out another jagged laugh and presses the heel of one hand against his forehead. “I can’t even look at them. I can’t look at anyone.”

“Ian … what—”

“I can’t stand this anymore.” The bottle slips from his fingers and clanks to the floor, spilling foamy amber liquid across the tiles. He takes a step toward me. I try to move backward, away from him, but my shoulders hit the wall. He places his hands on either side of me, trapping me there, and leans in. “Help me,” he whispers. “Make me forget.”

I grab his wrists. “You’re drunk! You need to stop—”

His lips press against mine, silencing me. The kiss is hard and fierce, but it’s more desperate than passionate, as if he’s suffocating and I’m the only source of air. I make a muffled noise of protest and shove him away. He staggers back.

“Ian, get ahold of yourself!”

He looks at me, his expression dazed. He blinks, and his eyes clear, as if he’s awakening from a trance. “Lain.” His voice is soft, stunned. “I—I’m sorry. I—”

There’s a blur of motion, and Steven slams into him like a white-blond wrecking ball. Ian stumbles to one side. Steven seizes the front of his shirt and rams him up against the wall. His fist plows into Ian’s jaw, knocking his head to one side. Ian’s face registers momentary shock, then panic. With a roar, he shoves Steven. “Don’t touch me!” He lashes out with one fist, but Steven ducks, dodging the blow. He grabs Ian and wraps an arm around his throat from behind, squeezing. Ian gasps, his eyes bugging out.

“Steven!” I cry, alarmed. “Let go!”

“Don’t touch her.” Steven forces the words through clenched teeth. “Don’t ever touch her.”

There’s a tinkle of breaking glass. Someone screams. Ian’s mouth is open, his face flushed an alarming purplish red. He elbows Steven in the gut, and Steven grunts but doesn’t let go. Ian flails until his fingers close around the hilt of a serrated knife on the counter.

I lunge forward, grab his wrist and Steven’s hair, and try to pull them apart.

Steven’s body jerks. Ian freezes. For an instant, neither one of them moves. Steven’s eyes stare glassily into space, then roll back, and his body slumps and crumples to the floor. He lands with a thud, facedown. Ian’s knife slips from his fingers and clatters to the tiles.

The music still thumps and grinds in the background, but the crowd has fallen silent. Ian stands, gasping and clutching his throat as his face slowly returns to its usual color. Steven doesn’t move.

Ian stares at me, his eyes wide. “What happened to him?”

“The collar.” Bile climbs into my throat. I swallow.

“Is he …”

“He’s just unconscious.” I don’t want to talk. I can’t even look at Ian right now. I’m too confused, too shaken.

Steven stirs, groaning.

“Hey, it’s him,” someone whispers.

A low hum of voices sweeps through the room. People inch away from Steven. Then a few start moving toward him. Their expressions darken, turning from fear to contempt. Someone kicks him in the ribs, and he flinches.

“Stop it!” I shout. “All of you, get away from him!”

“What’s it to you?” a girl asks.

I glare at her. “He’s my friend.”

“Your friend?” She says it like it’s a foreign concept.

“Yes!” I snap.

Steven tries to stand, stumbles, and falls to his knees. I have to get him out of here. I help him to his feet. He sways on rubbery legs, and I slip an arm around his waist. No one says a word, but I feel their eyes on us as we make our way slowly toward the elevator. People whisper. Girls snuggle against their boyfriends’ shoulders, as if for protection.

Steven is still staggering when we make it out of the building, into the cool night air, but at least he can walk now. I help him into the passenger’s seat of the car, then slide behind the wheel and slam the door. “Take us home,” I say.

The car pulls out of its space. My phone buzzes. It’s a voice mail from Ian. I delete it without listening. Guilt pricks my heart, because I have the feeling Ian’s as miserable and confused as I am, but it’s just too much to deal with right now. Until tonight, he’s never given even the slightest indication that he’s attracted to me. I tell myself that one drunken kiss doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

Steven leans back in his seat, chest rising and falling with his labored breaths. It seems the drug is still in his system. His eyes are cloudy, his face wet with perspiration. I wonder if it causes him pain as well.

“You didn’t have to attack him,” I say quietly. “He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was just …” Just what? I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

“You were scared,” Steven murmurs.

I swallow, my throat tight. He’s right. I was scared, but not for myself. For Ian. I think he might be losing his mind, but I’m afraid to speak the words aloud, because I feel like if I do, my fear will become reality.

I should report his behavior to IFEN, for his own good. He’s in no state to be taking on clients. Yet the idea of going behind his back is repellent to me. If they scan him now, he’ll probably come up as a Two or worse, and that will affect his future as a Mindwalker. Still, I can’t do nothing. Next time I see him, maybe I’ll encourage him to seek therapy.

I close my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” His voice is faint and scratchy. “I’m the one who lost it.” He gives a weak chuckle. “Guess you regret bringing me to that party.”

“No, I don’t. But I don’t want anything like that to happen again. Will you promise not to attack anyone else, for my sake?”

“Don’t know if I can promise that, Doc.”

“Steven, I mean it. I can take care of myself. And I don’t want you to hurt anyone or get in trouble.”

There’s a long silence.

“Steven?”

“Are you afraid of me now?” he whispers.

“No.”

“It’s okay if you are. I wouldn’t blame you. I practically strangled him.”

I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach out and lay a hand over his. “I’m not afraid.”

He looks at me, expression unreadable.

His knuckles are scratched, bleeding. I’m getting blood on my hand, but I don’t care. My fingers tighten around his.

The car glides down the road. Advertisements glisten around us, flowing across the walls of buildings, drifting through the air. A holographic banner for Lucid hovers in the air.

Uncover your mind’s potential.

The words float over the image of a smiling woman in a business suit. This part of the city is all shopping districts and expensive apartments. The less glamorous areas—like the treatment facilities and housing projects—are confined to the outskirts.

“Lain?”

“Yes?”

The muscles of his throat work as he swallows. Strands of hair cling to his sweat-damp brow. “Once this is all over, once you erase my memories, I won’t remember any of this, will I? I won’t remember you.”

I stare out the window, unable to look at his face as I answer, “No. You won’t.” That’s one of the reasons Mindwalkers aren’t supposed to get emotionally attached to their clients. It just causes pain, in the end. “Memories are tied together in clusters. In your mind, I’m linked with your kidnapping. Erasing your pain will also erase me.”

“That’s how it is, huh?”

My hand tightens on his. Then I force myself to let go and interlace my fingers in my lap. “That’s how it is.”

***

I drop Steven off at his apartment: a huge, featureless gray building on a narrow street lined with other huge, featureless gray buildings. This district is mostly government housing. Each apartment complex contains hundreds upon hundreds of tiny rooms, stacked on top of each other, for people who can’t afford to live anywhere else. This is the sort of place where orphans like Steven usually end up once they turn eighteen.

I wonder where he lived before this. A state home? Or has he spent most of his life in treatment facilities?

The buildings are divided by strips of stubby yellow grass littered with broken glass. In the distance, I hear the wail of a police siren as I walk him to the door. We stand there for a moment, awkward silence hanging over us. “I feel like I should be the one walking you to the front door,” he says.

“I don’t mind.” I smile.

The dim moonlight steals the color from his eyes, turning them almost dark. He’s looking at me so intently. What does he see? Who am I to Steven? “You look good in green,” he says at last.

My breath catches.

“See you later, Doc.” He presses the pad of his thumb against the biometric scanner. The door clicks open, and he disappears inside.

I linger outside the door for a while longer, looking up at the rows of tiny windows.

That night, I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and remembering the warm pressure of his fingers intertwined with mine. There’s a little flutter in my stomach, a stirring of something unfamiliar.

I hug Nutter, curling around him in a fetal position.

Of course I don’t want Steven to forget me. I don’t want to be left behind. But it’s better this way. Better for him.

I drift into the murky waters of half sleep, wander in and out of dreams. Bits of information rise up in my head, like objects floating to the surface of a lake, then disappear.

Steven. Pike. Seven children. One survivor.

A scar, glimpsed through cornsilk hair.

A single photo. A man conjured out of nightmares.

A child’s voice calling to me from the shadows of a forest. Find me.

I’m running through the forest, pushing through wispy gray branches, and I realize they’re not branches at all. They’re neurons. All around me, spidery gray webs flicker with muted light. I’m plunging deeper, deeper, toward a faint, pulsing gray glow.