What if her mom called? What if she took a minute from her crazy day and checked in to see how she and Archie were doing?

If she had a license—and a car of her own—she’d go out looking for him.

There were Arrival taxis on the island during the experiment period—driverless Ubers, basically. Should she call one of them?

She stewed for several seconds about what to do. She felt she needed the advice of an adult—so long as that adult was not her mother.

Katie pocketed her phone, walked to the front door, and opened it. She looked at the house across the street.

The home of the creepy serial killer. The one who went by the name Bruce Clifford, Archie had so proudly revealed at breakfast.

Katie stepped out of the house, closed and locked the front door behind her. She walked over the lawn, crossed the sidewalk and the street, then went up the driveway. She went to the front door and held her finger an inch away from the doorbell.

She paused a moment, considering her decision.

Katie pressed her index finger to the doorbell and held it. Inside the house, she heard the chimes ring. Seconds later, the faint sound of footsteps within the house.

There was the sound of a deadbolt being thrown half a second before the door opened wide.

Bruce Clifford, dressed in a white undershirt and a pair of faded jeans, looked at the girl through a pair of glasses that perched crookedly on his bulbous nose.

“Hey, Bruce,” she said.

“How’s it going, Katie?” he asked.

“Can I come in? I’ve got a problem.”

He stepped back. “You want some coffee?”

“I don’t really like it, but sure, that sounds like a plan,” Katie said, stepping into the house.

Eight

Sandra needed a moment.

Everything was ready to go. The media types were all positioned at their temporary workstations neatly arranged throughout the gym so that they could set up their computers and file stories while the presentation was under way. Everyone had been given, inside a handsome leather pouch that was individually addressed to each attendee, a press kit, a computer stick with a digital version of all the information in the press kit (with plenty of whiz-bang animations thrown in for good measure) that was shaped like an Arrival car, an Arrival key fob with the company logo, even a small metal diecast model of an Arrival—about four inches long—that reporters could take home and give to their kids, or keep for themselves.

There was a low-level buzz in the room. People were excited. Sandra could feel it. But before she did anything else, she slipped out a back door of the community center, leaned her back against the wall, and closed her eyes.