“Okay, that’s—yeah, don’t worry about it.” I rub my eyes as hard as I can without damaging any vital nerves and sit down on the edge of the bathtub and try to think. As with any time I’ve been sick in the past, whether it was a mild sore throat or a stomachache or a scraped knee, the first person I want to call is my mom. Even if she can’t give any proper medical advice, there’s just something comforting about her telling me I’m okay, I’ll get better, she’ll look after me. But I’m too far away for that, and I remember the uncharacteristically enthusiastic voice messages she sent me yesterday night.

I spoke with your aunt today and she says she’s heard some good things about your progress on the trip! Keep it up!

I’d hate to spoil her mood so soon, or admit that I’m almost considering skipping out on today’s competition because the sight of my face disgusts me. No. I have to solve this on my own.

A few minutes later, I’ve come up with a less-than-ideal course of action. There’s a mall just down the street from the hotel. If I can slip past Daisy and get to a store to buy myself a pair of sunglasses, then hurry back before everyone starts heading down for breakfast, I should be safe. After that, it’ll be a matter of making sure the sunglasses stay plastered to my face until the bugbites go away.

I change quickly into the outfit I’d picked out for myself and left on the towel rack last night, zipping my jacket as high up as it’ll allow and lowering the hood over my face. Then I slip through the bathroom door. I become a human shadow, the world’s stealthiest spy, moving so fast across the room in three strides that I barely catch Daisy’s words before I dash out into the hotel corridor.

“Leah, where are you—”

“Be right back,” I yell over my shoulder in a rush. “You can get breakfast first.”

I manage to make it all the way down to the lobby without bumping into anyone. But just as I’m about to flee toward the entrance, I catch sight of a familiar figure nestled in one of the plush sofas by the receptionist desk. He’s reading. One leg crossed over the other, a metallic bookmark balanced between his fingertips as he flips the page slowly. He’s always carrying a book with him, and never the same book twice. I glimpse the cover from a few feet away. It’s a somber midnight blue, minimalistic, a translation of a Chinese text, judging from the title running down the center and the red-crowned cranes in the design. The kind of book that proclaims itself to be Very Serious—and by extension, whoever is holding it.