“Sea foam,” he said, barely registering Sophia’s nod as the world around him washed away.

Sea foam.

The Slurpee fell from Kane’s hand, splaying its neon thickness across the aisle. He barely heard Sophia cuss.

Sea foam.

She was describing Dean. And, without knowing it, she was telling him exactly where to look for the rest of what he had lost.

Kane had no idea if this would work, but he had to try.

He stood in the wings of the auditorium where it was dark and cool. The empty space amplified the sounds of students going to class in the background. Shouting. Lockers slamming. Laughter. It was a period earlier than Spanish. None of the Others knew he was here. This had to be done alone.

Kane waited until the second bell to see if anyone entered the auditorium. No one did. He walked onto the stage—it was set up for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, full of watercolor trees and papery vines. He crouched in the middle, pulling out the red journal and a thick marker.

What would he do if it worked?

Hunched in the center of the stage, Kane drew a looping number eight on a fresh page.

Nothing happened.

Kane shook out his hands and rewrote the eight, just like he’d seen Dean do in Benny Cooper’s reverie, and arranged in shells on his bookshelf. All over his old belongings, he found eights.

Nothing happened. The auditorium was unchanged, its invisible crowd unimpressed. What had he thought would happen? Sparkles? A sudden, mystical wind? After the past weeks of magic and the supernatural, reality felt insufferably unengaging.

Kane tore the page from the journal, crumpled it up, and tossed it as hard as he could into the seats. This was so stupid. He rushed into the wings, already wondering if he should skip class and just go to the nurse, when he saw something in the auditorium flash.

Kane backed out onto the stage. There, standing in the center aisle, was the boy Kane had summoned, but not expected.

“Hello, Kane,” Dean said.

He stepped onto the stage and handed Kane the crumpled page. He had between ten and twenty freckles across the bridge of his nose. A necklace with a pendant in the shape of a chess piece—the knight, carved in obsidian—hung around his neck.

“I was wondering when you’d figure this out. Now, don’t do it again,” he said.

“The signal worked? How did you see it?”

Dean’s face was unreadable, his eyes as blank as a doll’s. They were the color of coastal sunlight chewed to froth by the lips of the Atlantic.

Sea foam.