I move quickly, running toward the sound, sprinting downstairs into the main space.

Sam cries out again and I see her, on her back in the middle of the massive flagstone kitchen floor. A Smiler—blinking and grinning a set of yellow teeth—is on top of her. Sam’s shaking arms are holding the Smiler’s weight as he bears down on her with all his strength. A shard of glass clasped in his hands, pushing closer and closer toward Sam’s chest, blood dripping from his shredded fingers.

I move toward them, turning sideways to gain more momentum as I swing the LucidVision headset as hard as I can, gripping the metal arm like a baseball bat. It connects with the Smiler’s head with a sickening, hollow thunk, and he falls limp on top of Sam.

She struggles under his weight. I drop the LucidVision and drag him off her.

Sam stands up, breathing hard, tears in her eyes. “He … he … God, he almost killed me.”

Her hand moves to her stomach as she looks into my eyes.

“We should go,” I say, bending to pick up the piece of equipment that houses Igby’s processor. Sam grabs my hand. I stop and look at her once again.

“That messed me up, Luka. That was … that was scary. I’ve been shot at before, I’ve been chased by Smilers, but that was … that was too close … He almost …”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. You’re alive.”

She hugs me, suddenly and ferociously. “Thank you,” she whispers.

I hug her back, and in that moment I hear the sound of the Smiler stirring on the floor beside us. In one smooth movement, Sam pulls away from me, grabs the gun from my waistband, and aims it at the Smiler.

“No!” I cry, trying to grab the gun from her.

The explosion is deafening. The way my eardrums contract feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. The bullet ricochets off the stone floor and I feel it buzz past my ear like some enormous insect as it bounces around the room.

All I can hear is a high-pitched whistling. I can see Sam’s mouth moving but can’t hear her words.

“What?” I ask, yelling over the tinnitus that is already beginning to subside.

“What are you doing? He’s going to kill us!” Sam screams.

“The gun,” I say, my own voice sounding like it’s coming from far away. “Happy will hear it!”

“Fine,” she says, grabbing her USW gun off the floor. “I’ll use this.”

I’m about to stop her, about to explain that this is someone’s brother, or father, or son, and he’s been poisoned by Happy to act in this way, but we both freeze.

A new sound fills the silent evening: a humming, insectile sound.