Sighing, I shove the bento boxes into my backpack and make my way across the lawn, toward Lalana. The sun reflects off the squat brick buildings, and tiny purple flowers bloom under the oak trees. A basketball court covers one end of the neatly shorn grass, and picnic tables are strewn across the other.

Closing my eyes, I lift my face to the sun, soaking up the warmth. April in Maryland can either be freezing or scorching. Thank goodness the weather is finally cooperating, with spring break two days away and prom a week after that.

Yeah, I know. What kind of fresh torture is that timing? The dance is earlier than usual this year—something about exam schedules and budget constraints. Which means, my friends will spend every moment of our vacay consumed by their outfits and accessories and hair. Ugh. Good thing I’m not going—

A streak of electricity zaps through my head.

My eyes pop open. What was that? I swear I felt my brain short-circuiting.

Cautiously, I glance around. A couple of my classmates are biting into fat, foil-wrapped burritos, and a girl with a feather tattoo is stretched on the lawn, using her girlfriend’s stomach as a pillow. A group of guys throw a basketball around on the court, and Lalana is frantically scrubbing at her pants, as though she might have spilled something.

Not a single person looks at me. Clearly, no puff of smoke billows around my head.

Okay, then. I was probably just imagining it. Lack of sleep and too much fatigue from carving all those veggies. That combo’s enough to make anybody hallucinate.

Giving my head a firm shake, I start walking—

Zapppp.

My breath hitches.

The synapses inside my brain sizzle, as though they’re being held over an open fire. I grab my temples between my hands, but it doesn’t help. The pain intensifies, as though my brain is slowly being brought to a boil.

My vision blurs, and I lurch behind a tree, dropping to my knees. A muffled voice rumbles. I don’t pay attention. I have more pressing concerns, like keeping the brain inside my skull. The voice rumbles louder. FLAMING MONKEYS. Can’t you see a girl is dying here? Go. Away.

“Maybe I would if you would listen a moment,” the Voice snaps, much more clearly this time.

What? Disoriented, I look up. But there’s no one around other than a butterfly flitting by my head.

“I’m in here,” the Voice says, as though I’m a wayward two-year-old. “In your head.”

The pain dials back a notch, but my stomach is still swirling with nausea. A voice…in my head? No way. I’m hallucinating. I’ve got to be. The chicken tasted worse than normal—maybe I have food poisoning. Any second now, I’m going to vomit or pass out. Probably both.