“The repairs aren’t easy,” my dad continues. “Sandor’s work is impressive and I’ve—ah—been out of the game for awhile. Everything works like I remember, it’s all just much smaller. The Lectern might be too intricate for me to get fully operational. I’ve been able to make some repairs to the controls. Some of the booby traps should be operational as well. It’s not perfect, by any means, but it’s something.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” John says. “Anything that could improve our training will help. I’d like to get a team session together before we go to Flo—”

Nine flings open the workshop door with enough force to almost tear it loose from its hinges. He takes one big stride forward and then violently kicks a stack of junk, sending circuit boards and scrap metal flying in our direction. I start to shield my face, but John catches the temper-tantrum shrapnel with his telekinesis.

“What the hell?” John yells. “Calm down!”

Nine looks up, startled, like he didn’t even realize we were in here. “Sorry,” he mutters, then stomps over to John. He holds out a hideously swollen right hand. “Heal this.”

“Damn,” I say. “What happened to you?”

“I punched Five in the head,” Nine says matter-of-factly. “It didn’t go well.”

Well, that didn’t take long, I think. Nine’s been trying to get under Five’s skin since we walked in the door. I’m actually more than a little surprised it’s Nine in here needing the healing. That’s not how I would’ve imagined that fight going. I keep my mouth shut, letting John deal with his wounded attack dog. He takes Nine’s forearm, maybe with a little more force than necessary, and holds his hand out over Nine’s messed-up fist. But he doesn’t heal him.

“You’ve gotta chill out,” John says, locking eyes with Nine. “No punching our friends. No challenging them to rooftop fights. No bullshit.”

Nine stares John down and, for a second, I think he might take a swing at him too. He doesn’t. Instead, he slaps on a big grin, as if the whole thing was one big joke. “I’m like the shittiest welcoming committee ever, huh?”

“Back in Paradise, Sarah’s mom used to bake stuff for anyone new that moved into the neighborhood. Maybe you should have to bake some cookies every time you punch someone,” I suggest.

John laughs as he sets about healing Nine’s hand. “I love that idea, Sam.”

“I am not baking,” Nine growls, fixing me with a death stare.

My dad clears his throat. We all look over at him. Standing straight, his hands folded behind his back; it’s the same look I’m sure his students at the university used to get. “Nine, I was wondering if you might want to assist me in the Lecture Hall?”

“With what?”