Except . . . now the one I’m wearing isn’t silver anymore. Whatever he did, he turned mine green, too.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling like I’m parroting myself . . . what, what, what? But I can’t seem to make my brain come up with anything better.
“Health.”
My gaze flashes to his. Sort of. I can’t see his eyes; he’s still wearing those opaque glasses. His expression gives me nothing. “Can you be a little less cryptic?” I snap, and then regret my tone. Biting his head off isn’t likely to get me any answers. The whole catch-more-flies-with-honey thing. But then, I’ve been perfectly polite up till now, and that hasn’t gained me any ground, either.
I shake my head, and as I do, I realize the headache’s gone. That’s one good thing, at least. Never let it be said that I’m not an optimist. With effort, I modulate my tone. “So . . . the bracelet? You said it’s . . . health?”
One brow arches, and he dips his chin toward my wrist. “The bracelet’s your con. The color’s your health. Don’t let it turn red.”
For a long moment, I stare at him, waiting for the rest of the explanation. It never comes. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Not a gamer, huh?” He sighs. “It means exactly what I said.”
When I was a kid, my grandfather used to do that: answer my questions with nonanswers or riddles. I doubt Jackson Tate plays that game better than Sofu.
I change direction and ask, “Would the bracelet really have exploded if you didn’t activate it?”
There’s a slight pause that makes me think I’ve surprised him by shifting topics. Good. Better that I have him on his toes than he have me on mine.
“No,” he says, and I think the corners of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile. I’m hit with a weird sense of déjà vu, like I’ve been in this moment before, seen his face, the sun on his hair, that smile. I smell the ocean, hear the waves breaking. Before I can figure it out, he rises and walks away, and the feeling’s gone.
“Good to know,” I mutter under my breath, sort of getting the last word, but he’s too far away to hear me, so maybe that doesn’t count.
Pushing up on all fours, I wait for the dizziness to hit. I’m surprised when it doesn’t. I feel fine. Better than fine. Everything’s in perfect working order. I run my palms along my jeans-clad thighs, then tug at the hem of my T-shirt. Even my clothes are intact, as though I never scraped away cloth and skin on the pavement, never cracked my bones into pieces and watched the jagged edges tear through muscle and flesh.
A shudder crawls across my skin, and my stomach does an unpleasant roll. Better not to think about my injuries.
The injuries that were there and now aren’t there.
Yeah, better not to think about that, either.
Carefully, I get to my feet, then glance at my wrist. The screen’s a dark forest green, swirling with shades of lighter green and turquoise and blue. I slide my index finger under the band. It’s tight, but not tight enough to be uncomfortable. It doesn’t yield as I try to pull it off, and I can’t find the clasp to undo it.
“Don’t bother. It’s on there until our mission’s complete.”
My head jerks up. “Luka!” I feel a surge of relief at seeing him standing in front of me, whole, unhurt, unbloodied. I take a step forward, my hands coming up on instinct to hug him, my smile stretching into a grin. Then I see the look on his face and I freeze. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. Maybe even . . . guilty. Of what?
“You’re okay,” I say, and drop my hands back to my sides, feeling lame.
“Yeah. For now.” He rakes his fingers back through his dark, wavy hair. He’s wearing a black wristband identical to mine, but he’s not tugging at his.
My thoughts rewind. “Wait . . . what . . .” I shake my head. “What mission?”
“Listen—” He exhales in a rush. “I need to tell you—”
I wait, but he says nothing more, and I’m getting a little tired of boys who talk in cryptic spurts or don’t talk at all. So I take the lead. “Telling me sounds like a great plan.” He doesn’t take the bait, so I prompt him. “What mission?”
He just stares at me.
Okay. New approach. “What happened back there on the road?”
The change of topic makes him blink. “We died. I mean, you died. On the road. I died last year.” He grimaces. “I’m making a mess of this.”
You died on the road. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. A part of me suspected it, but actually having it acknowledged as fact . . .
My first thought is for my dad. If I’m dead, he’s alone. If I’m dead, it’ll kill him. And Carly and Kelley and Dee and Sarah and all my other friends . . . I know what it feels like to mourn, to have a film of gray settle over every moment of every day, a fog that coats everything, leaching out color and joy. I don’t want that for them. My heart gives a hard thump in my chest. And that stops me cold.