Mirage said he might have enough energy to heal me once everyone was awake. It’s been two hours—at this point everyone is either awake and escaped, or dead. If Mirage could heal me, he should be able to do it by now … if I wasn’t trapped in here.

But am I trapped in here? Elliott probably is. His body is in shock, unable to wake up. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to wake up, though. I was knocked unconscious for a while but I’m fine now. And this is my construct, just like the memory of my old house. When I wanted to get out of there …

All I had to do was walk out.

Which means all I’d have to do now is walk out too. Get up, step off the side of this tower, and leave Elliott to die.

In a heartbeat, I’d told him a second ago. And it only makes sense. In the state he’s in he’d never make it to Earth before he died. But me, I could live. I could go home, see Ty, finally get the things I’ve worked so hard for.

I can leave Elliott behind and get everything—or we can both die here, and get nothing.

I laugh out loud. The sound is harsh and brittle with irony.

“What’s … so funny?” Elliott asks, his breathing more labored now.

I stand up. “Me. This. All of it.” I step to the edge of the platform. “Thanks for everything, Elliott. I mean it. You’re a good guy. And that’s not an insult this time.”

He lifts his head off the iron bar. He stares at me, something like alarm tugging his eyes tight. “What are you doing, Marty?” he asks carefully.

I close my eyes. “Being the middle ground,” I tell him.

And then I step out over the empty air.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I JOLT UPRIGHT, GASPING. THE RAINBOW FLOOR IS flickering wildly: beeswax gold urgency, burnt umber frustration, emerald worry, and some brilliant, flaring shade of red that reminds me of a phoenix. I think it means pain.

Elliott’s body is a few feet away, crumpled up like he dropped where he stood. One hand is over his chest, over his injury, like he still can’t believe it’s there. Like he can’t believe his mother put it there. He doesn’t deserve to die like this. Doesn’t deserve to die at all.

I put my injured palm, which is starting to tingle with the beginnings of agony, on the floor. Instantly the colors flick to orange. I frown for a second until I understand—it’s fire. Mirage is on fire. He’s entering the atmosphere, burning up. Crashing.

Marty, he whispers.

“Mirage. I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Is there no way you can save yourself?”