Chu made a quick gesture and a door on either side popped open, swinging outward. The hallway was narrow enough for him to reach out and grab both doors, holding them open. “The lady to my right, the boy to my left. You’ll find food, a shower, fresh clothes—everything you need. But rest is your priority. In you go.”

Tick looked at Mistress Jane, but she didn’t return his glance. She simply nodded to Chu and entered her room. Chu slammed the door closed; it sealed with a hiss.

“In, boy,” he said.

From somewhere within him, courage swelled in Tick’s chest. “You won’t win. The Realitants know everything, and they’ll be coming for you.”

Chu glanced at the leather satchel slung over Tick’s shoulder, his eyes lingering.

Stupid! Tick thought. You shouldn’t have said anything!

“In, boy,” Chu repeated.

This time, Tick kept his mouth shut and quickly entered the room. He’d barely crossed the threshold when the door slammed shut behind him.

~

“It’s very late,” Master George said, walking at such a brisk pace down the dark hallway that Paul had to jog to keep up with him and the others. “But before we slumber, I must show you one last thing. Tomorrow is perhaps the biggest day any of us will ever face—and I want you to know exactly what’s at stake.”

He paused in front of a steel door with a heavy bolt thrust through its lock. He reached out and slid a small, two-inch peephole open, the scrape of metal piercing the air.

“I want each of you to look in here, for as long as you can stand it. Then we will speak one last time before we say good night.”

Master George stepped aside and gestured for Sofia to go first.

As she peeked through the small slot, Paul saw her body go rigid, her hands clenched into tight fists. She finally looked away after several seconds.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she yelled, looking accusingly at everyone in turn. “What’s wrong with him?”

Paul pushed past her and looked through the hole in the door. His breath caught when he saw Sato, his arms and legs strapped to a bed in several places. Despite the number of constraints, he still thrashed about madly, ropes of veins bulging under his skin, his face red from the effort. Dark bruises and scrapes marked where he fought against the straps.

His lips moved as he screamed something, spit flying, but a wall of glass between the door and the bed trapped the sound in and Paul couldn’t hear a word. Paul didn’t know if he’d ever seen something so heartbreaking. He finally stepped back, wondering if the image would ever leave his mind.

“What’s wrong with him?” he whispered.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with him!” Sofia shouted.