Conner clears his throat. “Next question.”

“Wait, I have my answer.”

He looks at me pointedly. “I said next question, November.”

“Some combination of touch and hearing,” I say quickly before he can start talking again, not because I couldn’t pass on the question, but because I don’t like to be silenced.

He doesn’t react. “Would you rather climb a tree, go out to sea, or be pain-free?”

I hesitate. Dad used to give me these kinds of personality tests as a sort of riddle. I always teased him that it was a carry-over from his former life in the CIA. But what I want to know now is what going out to sea, my strongest sense, and whether I like day or night have to do with anything.

“It’s not a difficult question,” Conner says, and my brain snaps into motion.

Climb a tree probably means you just want to have fun or live in the moment. Go out to sea? Leave where you are, feeling unsatisfied with your current situation. Be pain-free…other than the obvious meaning, I’m actually not sure about this one.

Conner pulls at his beard and looks between me and the folder as he jots down notes.

“Be pain-free,” I say, even though climb a tree is definitely the most accurate for me. However, if there’s one thing I get the sense this school doesn’t value, it’s having carefree fun.

He grunts. “And your capacity for spatial relations?”

“Solid.”

“Athletic stamina?”

“I’ve always played a lot of sports…so I would say strong.”

“Codes?”

“As in breaking them?” Boy, this guy doesn’t spare a word he doesn’t have to.

“As in breaking or creating.”

I shrug. “No experience.”

He looks up at me for a second and I get the sense that he doesn’t believe me. “Okay, good. That will give us a starting point at least for class assignment.”

Class assignment—I now take it that the classes Blackwood and Layla described aren’t just electives, they are the curriculum. Not that I’m sad to give up math and English, but it’s also shocking that a prep school wouldn’t be more focused on academics.

Conner puts the leather folder on the table. He looks at the untouched tray of food. “Aren’t you going to have some bread and jam?”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Feel free to eat without me,” I say, trying not to make eye contact with the tempting bread.

“You must be hungry. You haven’t had breakfast yet,” he says, and smiles.

After they most likely drugged me on the plane, there is no way I’m eating this. I look at him squarely. “This is an assessment office and you’re assessing me, right? The only thing I can think is that the food is part of my assessment, and I’m not sure I want to find out what’s in it.”

His expression shifts, like he’s found something he was looking for. “You’re suspicious. Or maybe it’s just me that you don’t trust.”

For a second I’m taken aback. This is the first time anyone has ever called me suspicious. And somehow this comment feels different from the others, like he’s probing my psyche as opposed to just collecting information. “I don’t like to make the same mistake twice,” I say carefully.