“My name is Dr. Marshall. You can call me Steve.”

I flinch at hearing my dad’s name. Dr. Marshall—I cannot call him Steve—doesn’t seem to notice.

“May I listen to your lungs?” Dr. Marshall steps away from the window. Deep laugh lines circle his eyes. He holds a stethoscope in one hand as though asking permission to use it, all in a very anti-Swarm kind of way.

The silence stretches out between us as I gauge whether these three are a threat. I don’t think they are, but I also don’t know if I can trust my instincts right now. I hone in on the doctor, who looks at me with a patient expression as he waits for me to decide he isn’t Death Mob affiliated. And I nod again.

Dr. Marshall slides the cold metal disk up and down my back as I breathe, slipping into routine. I imagine the pops and crackles he’s hearing. Most doctors overreact the first time they listen to my lungs.

Another man steps closer. Tall. Lanky. Better dressed than I expected. I peg him as Richard, the one with the nasal voice. “How did you end up on the mayor’s dock?”

At first, I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly. The mayor’s dock? The mayor lives in a Lakefront mansion—I’ve seen it plenty of times. I try to think of how long it would take to drive from Navy Pier to the mayor’s house. Five, six minutes without traffic? The two aren’t close.

Richards squats to eye level. His tie falls forward, hitting my knee. He blushes as he fumbles for it, pressing it against his dress shirt. It’s a weird reaction for a guy wearing such an expensive tie.

“You go to my school,” Nameless Guy says. His tone is critical.

I blink, pushing against the fog governing my head. Nameless Guy wears a collared shirt like it makes him superior. I know him, but from where doesn’t register.

“You’re friends?” Richard asks.

“God, no,” Nameless Guy says to his phone. “She’s nuts—as in legitimately crazy. In third grade, she told everyone she had a twin sister who went to another school. Talked about her all the time. Couple months later we all found out she made the whole thing up. Her twin died at birth.” His eyes meet mine. “That was you, right?” He snaps his fingers like it’s just come to him. “Amelia—that’s it.”

My stomach churns as his name comes to me too: Cullen Henking, the mayor’s smarmy son.

“Don’t mind Cullen,” Richard says, his long, thin legs jutting out like a frog’s. A giant frog with a crooked tie. It’d be funny if Cullen hadn’t just mocked my childhood struggle to cope with the dead twin I never knew.

“Your lungs sound better. Any chest pain?” Dr. Marshall asks.