“All right,” Walter whispered. He and Bryson were with Michael behind the car; the others had slipped around the back of the building to check things on that side. “We’ll do a zigzag sweep, starting here and heading out that way”—he pointed toward the woods—“and see if we come across anyone hiding.”

“Shouldn’t we split up?” Bryson asked. “We could cover way more ground.”

“Helga swore to give me the true death if I let you two boys out of my sight,” he replied. “After she cut off all my special parts.”

“Ouch,” Bryson whispered. “She’s one tough nanny.”

“What is the true death?” Michael asked, ignoring his friend. “No one ever told us in there.”

“Really?” Walter responded. “Right now?”

Michael shrugged.

Bryson sided with Walter. “How about he tells us when we’re done dealing with Janey and her creepy friends?”

Michael sighed. “Fine.”

Walter gave him a curt nod—he had a handgun similar to the one Michael had wanted—then crouched and inched up to the back of the car, peeking around the edge. Bryson was next, then Michael, who lifted his head enough to look through the window. On the other side of the vehicle, trees crowded the hillside, growing thicker and thicker until they formed a dark forest. Michael felt that familiar gaming itch—the curiosity of the unexplored, the certainty that there was something sinister hidden out there. He realized that it helped him feel braver to approach this like a game.

Walter turned back and motioned for Michael and Bryson to follow him, then made a break for the woods. Michael stayed close to Bryson, crouching as low as possible, with a tight grip on his rifle. He stopped at the first line of trees, holding his weapon as if it were a lance in a joust. Even though he was trying to think of this as a game, he couldn’t fathom pulling the trigger any time soon. What he was really hoping for was a chance to talk to Janey or any other Tangent. He’d already thought it through. He’d decided that if the opportunity presented itself, he would accidentally “get lost” and take off on his own. He needed information, not dead children—no matter who lived in their heads.

It got darker as they crept deeper into the woods and the canopy of leaves grew thicker over their heads. Dry pine straw crackled under Michael’s feet. Branches scratched his arms as he swept his gun left and right. Shadows passed, drawing his attention to the dark corners of the forest, and curling bark and thick branches of pine needles twisted into long arms and fingers reaching out to tug at his hair and clothes. No one spoke as they moved through the maze of the forest. Only their footsteps and the buzz of insects broke the silence.