No, I don’t care that the handsome stranger on the other side of the door saw me looking like the Picasso version of myself. Or that he probably just heard me pee. I can’t care about any of that. Because I need to focus on not letting anything slip that could alert him to why I’m actually here.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I have a job to do.

I can’t get distracted by fear. And I definitely can’t get distracted by Michael’s dimples. Especially now that I know who he must be.

I’m here to do what I’ve always wanted: to be a member of the Families, the historic order that my ancestors have long been a part of. That I too am finally a part of.

The Families have spent generations passing down the secret history of a group of exiles rumored to be in hiding. They supposedly have artistic talents and scientific knowledge far beyond anything we know to exist in our own society. I’ve grown up on stories of the exiles’ incredible innovations and their tragic disappearance, and I’ve heard countless fantasies of what the world could be like if we ever found them again and could share their knowledge.

And I’m pretty sure Michael is one of the exiles.

I take a few more calming breaths, ready to face whatever happens next.

When I come out, Michael is sitting at the desk chewing his nails and inspecting the gloves. His face is illuminated by the strands of dawn peeking through the window; his wound has been cleaned up, and there’s little evidence that it was ever there at all.

There’s nowhere else to sit, so I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I cross one leg over the other, then awkwardly uncross them.

“Here’s your phone,” Michael says, handing it to me.

“Thanks.” The screen is cracked and the battery is dead. No one knows where I am, and I have no mode of communication. Great.

Michael continues to tinker with the gloves. He lifts his multi-tool and uses a tiny magnifying glass to peer at the metal. “How did they get ahold of antimatter?” he mutters. “I can’t wait to bring these back to Genesis; they’re incredibly valuable.” He looks up. “And so are you.”

No one has ever called me valuable.

As his gaze locks on mine, his floppy hair a wayward mess, I remind myself that I have no reason to trust him. But I really need to convince him that he can trust me.

He blinks, looks away, then looks back at me. “Uh, what I mean is that we need to get you to the institute as well.”

I swallow. “What institute? Why?” I don’t have to fake my curiosity, even if I may not be quite as clueless as Michael believes me to be.