That’s when Alex, from the other side of the bank, says, “Everyone shut up!” They tear out the cord of their headphones from the radio, and the air suddenly fills with the sound of static and an eerie list of deadpan numbers—five, one, eight, five, six—over and over. “It’s the Vanguard.”

Erin slides down from the desk and sprints over. Nick follows close on her heels. Everyone else glances at one another and slowly stands to follow. I prop myself up on the desk.

“You okay?” Salvador asks, stopping beside me. I wave xem ahead with the rest.

Alex picks up the radio and a piece of paper with what looks to be a script. It’s Nick’s handwriting—looks like there’s some kind of radio communication etiquette. “Victor Romeo Delta, Victor Romeo Delta, this is Alpha Lima Charlie, come in, over.” Alex pulls away from the mic. “I still say that sounds stupid. It’s just us, why do we need these call signs? Is it lima as in lima beans?”

“Shh,” Nick says.

A rough voice from the other side of the line: “Alpha Lima Charlie, this is Victor Romeo Delta”—VRD, Vanguard—”we read you.” I’m in awe of this thing Alex has built. It looks like it’s running off a modified car battery, turned into a beast of wires. This is Alex’s domain; we all know better than to mess with it. “You previously contacted us about a meeting. Is this request still in effect? Over.”

Alex hands the mic over to Nick, who straightens up like the Vanguard can see him somehow. “Affirmative. As soon as possible, over.”

“We hear you.” The disembodied voice rattles the lobby. I press closer, leaning against the teller desk, digging my nails into the wood. “Loud and clear. However, due to recent developments, we will not be returning to the Commons until a month passes or you can provide us with proof of twenty kills. Over.”

Twenty. The word hits like a cinderblock, the way a bullet hits the chest, the way Calvin’s words jammed into our skulls. Twenty.

“Did he just say—” Faith whimpers.

“Motherfucker,” Cormac growls. “Motherfucker.” He looks at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to take the steps between us and slam me into the desk until my skull splits open. But his head drops into his hands, and he sits on the floor and says nothing.

Erin stares at the radio as if that will change what she just heard.

Nick grabs the mic. “Repeat, was that twenty? Over.”

“Affirmative. Do you have twenty? Over.”

Nick looks at me too.

Erin says, “Jesus Christ, Nick. No. We can’t. Please, no.”

I whisper, “What?”

Nick swallows hard.

“Nick, what?”

“We’re not,” Nick says. He grabs the mic again. His other hand taps against his leg like he’s trying to puncture it. “We do not have twenty. Over.”