My brother’s words hang in the air, so tangible that they could be a physical object. A shiny red tricycle on the playground, a cutout face on a stick…or a knife straight through my heart.

Bandit shoots me a panicked glance. “All right, all right. No need to get testy.” He lies the gun down on the concrete, his movements slow and fumbling.

“Kick it across the court,” Archie demands.

Another pause. Another glance. And then Bandit obeys.

“You.” My brother gestures toward me. “Tie him up with the jump ropes, around the basketball pole.”

My heart pounds, the beats overlapping one another. If I follow his orders, if I render Bandit helpless, I’ll cut in half our minuscule chances of besting him. And yet, the weapon in his hands takes away every choice I have.

“Archie, please,” I say faintly, not certain what I’m asking.

“Wrists and ankles,” he says in a bored voice. “Make it tight, Malice, or I’ll have to do it myself.”

My mouth drops. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Isn’t that the name you’ve chosen for yourself in the future? That’s what I heard.”

I stare at this boy who looks and sounds so much like my brother. “In the future, you died before I took on that name. I watched you on a holo-screen inside a cave.”

His face hardens. “Or did I? You shouldn’t always believe what you’re told. What you think you see. You’re so naive, Malice. That’s why it was so easy for the future to trick you. You have to believe the best in everybody. No wonder your older self was so disgusted by you.” He shakes his head. “Now stop stalling and move!”

Quivering, I cross the lawn and scoop up the pile of jump ropes. Without my asking, Bandit positions himself in front of the pole and crosses his wrists around the length of metal. So thoughtful, this guy. Even now, every action he takes is to help me.

I wind the jump rope around his wrists, trying not to touch him. But my fingers graze his skin anyway, and my heart fractures with the touch.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He twists around so that he can look at me, his lips turning up at the corners. “Hi.”

Heat rushes behind my eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t smile at me now, of all times. I can’t handle it.”

“These might be the last moments of my life,” he says. “Would you rather that I frown?”

I drop my head because I can’t bear to look into his finely chiseled face. My ponytail hangs by his now-bound wrists, and he flexes his fingers so that they brush against the tips of my hair. The fracture turns into a full-on break.