I followed the signs past Café Trapdoor and the black-box theater to the campus’s edge, where the paved walkways gave way to trails that led into the redwood forest. Even for someone who grew up in California, the forest trails were incredible—once you walked into the trees it was about ten degrees cooler than it was on campus. The path wove through giant, moss-covered trees that stood as tall and majestic as pillars in a temple. Everything smelled clean and vaguely of lemons, and it was so peaceful that I began to think that maybe all those studies I’d cited about neuroplasticity were actually true.

The longer I walked in the forest, the more it seemed like a fairy tale, like an enchanted place where anything was possible—the sort of place you might run into fairy spirits or gnomes. A ways off the trail there was a tree with a hollow big enough for two, exactly the sort of place that Ros and I would’ve loved as kids. I made my way to it and ducked inside, running my hands over the smooth black insides, marveling at the sheer size of the tree. I couldn’t believe it. Not twenty-four hours ago, I’d been in my bedroom, listening to Buckets snore himself awake. We’d done it. We’d found our way to another world.

And the real magic? The real magic was that here, standing in this tree, there was cell service. I took a selfie and had just sent it to Ros when I heard the yelling.

“Fools, I’m telling you, fools. This was supposed to be different; that was the whole point—but the script is horrible, unrivaled rubbish—I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid it is, incomprehensible, and long, audiences are going to revolt—”

That voice. It was British. And weirdly familiar.

“—not even honest, at least our show is honest, and the director, don’t even get me started on the director—I’m meant to be here as a favor to them, but so far they’re totally preoccupied with their own mess—”

I peeped around the corner of the tree, doing my best to be covert. Whoever it was, it seemed best not to interrupt them, since it seemed highly likely that they might throttle the next person they saw.

“And the title keeps changing; did I mention that?”

It’s lucky I didn’t gasp out loud. Because there in the woods, yelling into his phone and looking like he was about to punch someone in the face, was Oliver Teller, aka Blade Mendoza, the sexiest Rollerblading villain of all time and the smokingly hot, maybe fish-eyed, star of the greatest show ever made, Power Jam.

Oh.

My.

God.