“Everything can be fixed. I just have to work the problem.”

“No problem to work, Commander.” He leans closer. “She’s not broken. No one is. She just has to figure that out.”

I stare at him. Ben smiles, makes a little explosion sound as he flares his fingers. “Dharma Bomb.”

He doesn’t get it.

“Maybe you should change your major to philosophy,” I snap.

“Not nearly enough homework. I couldn’t take myself seriously.”

“This is serious. What’s happening with Hannah. You saw her that night in the kitchen. And there are…” I lower my voice. “It’s not just my parents she’s upset about. There are other things, things you don’t know about. That she doesn’t even know about. Yet. I have to do something, Ben. She could die. She will die.”

The longer I keep the Micah secret from her, the more our radius of separation increases. I can feel it, the force field between us getting bigger and bigger. It’s the size of an airplane hangar now. One big enough to fit a rocket.

He gives me an inscrutable look. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,” he repeats. He reaches out, tucks a strand from my bob back behind my ear, where I like it.

I am about to attack him for lacking proper conversational technique when I realize what he’s saying:

Yes, she will die. Because we all will. Someday. But I don’t think Nah has until someday.

Hannah will die.

Possibly soon.

This was a terrible idea. I’d rather be home with earplugs in, teaching myself Russian so I can keep up in Star City if I launch with a Russian team.

“I think I prefer the drunk Italians,” I say.

“Close your eyes,” Ben says.

“What?”

“Just do it. Please.”

I do. I don’t know why I let him boss me around.

“Now,” he says, so close I can feel the heat of his breath. “Just breathe. And listen. Don’t think, Mae. I know that’s impossible for you, but try. Just listen. Be here. Really be here. With me, with all of us.”

I open one eye and he smiles. “Mae…” I close my eye.

The train’s wheels clack on the rails. A baby is cooing and gurgling. Someone laughs, high and long. A newspaper rustles. A person behind me cracks their knuckles. Ben sighs. Low and soft. I lean into him, my eyes still closed, and he wraps an arm around me.

The train lurches, the brakes squeal, and my eyes snap open.

“Our stop,” Ben says.

He takes my hand and pulls me out. Everyone on the car wearing MIT sweatshirts spills out behind us. The university’s just a block away. I follow Ben, dazed.

“What was that?” I say.

He glances at me. “It was.”

This takes me a minute.

“Is that some weird Zen shit?”