I thought about calling my family and trying to explain myself further, but I can’t risk it. They won’t understand, and giving them any info about where I’m going or what I’m doing is dangerous for them. I just hope that they aren’t too upset. With any luck, Sarah and I will be back in time for prom. Assuming there is still a prom. Assuming there is still a Paradise.

The diner’s pretty empty—the sun is only just starting to rise in the distance—but I’m still cautious. I wait until the old man in the booth behind me leaves before I pull out the laptop and open it up. I’m not even sure where to begin. Maybe it’d be best if I just mail the damn thing to GUARD. . . .

No. If anything on here will help me find Sarah, I need the info now. More than just the town she’s in. I need to know how I can help her.

I flit through some emails, mostly full of terminology I don’t recognize. I tell myself that over time I’ll analyze every word in these correspondences. There seems to be problems between the FBI and the Department of Defense, and I rack my brain to try and remember anything from my American government class about what it is the Department of Defense does other than something vaguely related to keeping the country safe. There are also a bunch of references to a secretary who’s helping out the Mogs, but I don’t know why Purdy’s so interested in some office assistant.

After a while I take a break from emails and start looking around for information in other places. I start clicking around the computer’s desktop. One folder stands out to me: MogPro.

Mogs.

I double click the folder, but instead of opening up like it should, a password terminal flashes on the screen. No username request, just a password field floating on top of the desktop. I try to escape from it or click on one of the other files, but it blocks me from doing anything else. I pull out the list of passwords GUARD sent me and try out the one that got me into the computer. A small red “X” appears below the password field.

Okay.

I try the next one and end up with another red “X.” As I hit Enter on the third one, it dawns on me what the “X”s probably mean.

“Oh no, no, no, no,” I whisper. But it’s too late. I’ve fucked up. A third “X” appears, and suddenly there’s a whirring from inside the computer as the hard drive spins into overdrive. In the background I see files disappearing from the desktop. Finally, the screen goes black. The power button is unresponsive.

“No!” I shout. “Son of a bitch!”