With Chicago behind us, the highway opens up. There’s nothing but grain fields on either side of us. We zip past semitrucks as they rumble along, making good time now, not even having to use the nitrous Sandor installed. The last thing in the world we need is to be pulled over. I bet I’m still red flagged in most government databases, not that any of us even has a license for a highway patrolman to run, which is another potential problem in and of itself. When we make it back to Chicago, I need to see if Sandor left any forgery material around. We need some new fake IDs.

“You ever try turning a whole car invisible?” Sarah asks Six, who hasn’t said much since we set out. She lounges in the backseat with Bernie Kosar in her lap. “I mean, you are touching it.”

“Huh,” Six replies, sitting up. “Never tried it.”

“Don’t,” I say, maybe a bit too sharply. “Someone could crash right into us.”

“Thanks, John. If you hadn’t said anything, I probably would’ve just turned us invisible here in public, while we’re flying along at like seventy miles per hour. Good thing you’re here to keep me in check and Sarah from driving too fast.”

I open my mouth for a comeback, something about how Six is a bit of a loose cannon and I can’t predict what she might do next—like invite my girlfriend along on a dangerous mission—but think better of it when I notice Sarah looking at me. Her eyebrow is raised, like she’s confused by Six’s tone. She’s probably been picking up on the bad vibes between Six and me since we left Chicago. It’s definitely not something I want to try explaining, so I just shrug, brushing the whole thing off.

Six is right that I’ve been obsessively checking our speed. Every time Sarah’s foot gets heavy on the gas, I tap her gently on the leg. She slows down and looks at me apologetically, like it’s not her fault, the car just begs to be driven fast. Maybe I shouldn’t be so anal and just let her race down the highway, consequences be damned. That’s probably what Six or Nine would do.

Every moment, I’m dreading the feeling of a new scar burning itself into the flesh of my leg. What if the Mogadorians get to Five before we do, all because I wouldn’t let Sarah floor it?

These are the kinds of thoughts that I’ve been losing sleep over the last few nights—not specifically about Five, but on leading our group in general. There’s just no way to plan for every eventuality, no matter how hard I think things over. It’d be so much easier if I had an attitude like Nine’s where I could just go out and hit things.