While Sarah goes back to watch over John and Ella, I try to get some rest in the living room. I guess when you’ve just recently seen your best friend sucked into a state of perpetual sleep, naptime can be a little nerve-racking. Still, my body is more exhausted than my anxiety is strong, and I must fall asleep for at least a few hours.

The first thing I do upon waking up is check on John and Ella. There’s still no change.

I wander down to the Lecture Hall thinking that some kind of workout will do me good. Maybe if I pick out the noisiest guns in Nine’s arsenal to use in target practice, I’ll disrupt John and Ella’s slumber.

I stop through the workshop on my way. It’s empty. My dad must be in his room getting some rest.

The tablet is still plugged in and I can see that five blue dots have made it to Florida, currently moving slowly across the southern tip. That’s good. It means Six and the others didn’t have any problems using their new fake IDs at the airport and that there weren’t any Mogadorian scouts waiting to pick them off. Everything appears to be going just the way John planned. If only he was awake to see it.

I notice something blinking in the corner of one of the computer screens. It’s the translator program my dad set up. It must have been on autopilot this entire time. I restore the window, a dialogue box popping up.

TRANSLATION COMPLETE. PRINT NOW?

I swallow hard, not sure if it’s my place to be the first one viewing these Mogadorian translations, but clicking YES anyway. A printer beneath the desk hisses to life, spitting out the document. I grab the first page before the rest have even finished printing.

Some of the words are jumbled or mixed up, making it clear that the translation program is not 100 percent accurate. But even with the occasional misplaced word, I recognize the document immediately. I’ve seen it before.

I realize that I’m holding my breath, that my fingers have clenched the papers tight enough to wrinkle and bend them. I’m rooted in place, disbelief and fear shutting down my much-needed motor functions.

I’m holding in my hands a copy of the notes my father took on the Garde’s Inheritance. Tacked onto the end is the address of the John Hancock Center.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I BURST OUT OF THE WORKSHOP, THE DOOR sharply clanging behind me. My palms are sweating, almost like the documents I’m holding are radiating heat. My mind races.

What would the Mogadorians be doing with copies of my father’s notes? How would they even have gotten them?