But I can’t. Hunter’s disappointed enough. No way can I back out on the dance now, too.

I stare at his last line, struggling to know what to say that won’t make things worse. Finally I just write: I’m sorry.

I go back to my screen of startalk with Sam. I want more. I write: UGH BOYFRIENDS.

Long minutes pass. She must be busy. Or, possibly, UGH BOYFRIENDS is about the stupidest text anyone ever sent. I lie back down and listen to the sounds from downstairs. Dad has a video on for Jonah — Animals of Madagascar. I know the music by heart. To all of them. I’m fretting again about whether they’ll let Jonah watch his videos at Little Lambs Village when the doorbell rings. Pizza.

I’ve just finished eating and am cleaning up the table when my phone finally dings. It’s Sam! She says: *Runs BOYFRIEND through database* *no results found*

I excuse myself and run upstairs. In my room, I write: That tall guy you hang out with isn’t your boyfriend?

Sam: Nope. Robots don’t date.

Me: He’s a robot?

Sam: No, I am. It’s how to survive when people suck or you keep losing at the same stupid level of the same stupid game. Coast. Autopilot. Be a robot. Beep beep!

I’m not sure how serious she is, but if her MO is to try to avoid having emotions, then she and I are about as opposite as two people could be. I’m basically a walking sack of feelings. I cry at commercials. I worry about stray cats. I hyperventilate watching Olympic skating, peering out through my fingers. Sam would think I’m the world’s biggest sap.

I write: What do robots do when other people cry?

Sam: Apply Rust-Oleum. And if it’s a friend, launch missiles at their enemies.

She’s sweet, in her own strange way. I want to be kind to her in return. I write: *launches missiles at lunches of matching colors and symmetry* *launches missiles at absentee dads*

Sam: *rolls through the post-apocalyptic landscape with immense satisfaction*

And before I know it, we’re lost in Starworld again, taking Humphrey on some sort of magical snipe hunt. Sam stalks through an extraterrestrial jungle with the subtlety and grace of a drunken elephant, and her antics soon have me laughing so hard that the real world disappears.

Later, though, I realize at some point I’m going to have to deal with reality. I have to tell Cammie about Jonah, and Erin and Syd, although Cammie will tell them if I ask her to.

I send a message to Sam. Starworld saved my life today. It’s been really rough lately, as you know. So thank you.

She writes: *bows* At your service, Your Majesty.