Behind him, largely ignored, is Mom’s old gun cabinet. I don’t know if it was fascination or paranoia, but she began a collection a few months before she left. No locks on the cabinet door, of course, because she was never much for child safety. All those gates and outlet covers? Just another way for corporations to scam money from overprotective parents, she claimed.

Not that Archie or I need the deterrent. Hell, I don’t even know how many weapons are inside. Even after she left, we haven’t so much as opened the door. I doubt Dad’s taken a peek, either.

“Hey, Arch. Does Zeke need a ride? Dad wants to know.”

My brother’s hands fly over a keyboard, and he’s wearing—wait for it—his uniform of khakis and the T-shirt with the Marie Curie head.

Which reminds me of the Voice in my head. You’ll get the clarification you need at the Newhouse awards ceremony, she said.

I blanch. I haven’t seen Zeke since before spring break. If he’s going to be at the awards ceremony tonight, does that mean he just entered my pool of candidates for who might become the Maker?

I shake my head forcibly. No. Zeke is one of a hundred students who’ll be attending, several of whom are from our school. And the Voice said I’d feel the unshakable truth in my soul when I figured out the target. My soul doesn’t feel anything when I look at Zeke—except maybe that he gets better-looking every time I see him. Zeke is too kind, too good. There’s no way he’s the Maker.

I wrench my attention back to the present.

Archie continues to type a billion words a minute.

“Brother. I’m talking to you. Can you listen, please?”

Still no response. I jab him in the shoulder. “Archie!”

He leaps out of his seat, and I jerk back before his head slams into my chin. We reenact this scenario at least five times a month.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He rubs the head that definitely missed my chin. What, does he have a phantom ache? “And yes. Zeke needs a ride.”

I stare. “If you heard my question, why didn’t you answer?”

“I was in the middle of a thought?” The sentence tilts up at the end, as though even he’s not sure if this is a reasonable excuse.

I sigh. The house could be in flames and he’d take his chances with the fire extinguisher, so long as he could finish a proof. “Never mind. Lookee, I brought you a present.” I hand over the knotted tie, which is covered with elements from the periodic table. I found it online during one of my stress-shopping sprees and couldn’t resist.

A smile spreads across his face. “It’s perfect. How do you always find just the right gift?”