After they’d finally squirmed away from the pile and stood again, the three of them stared at each other, panting with red faces.

“You’re right,” Tick said between breaths. “That was ridiculous.”

“I don’t think my body will ever heal,” Paul said through a wince.

Sofia stared up at the button with a grin. “Well, at least I got a closer look at the words on that sticker.”

“Really?” Tick asked, his hope rising. “What did it say?”

Sofia let out a discouraged sigh. “Two words: Push me.”

~

Sato lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’d focused so long on a bear-shaped shadow caused by the pale moonlight seeping through his window that it seemed to be moving, growing smaller and larger as if breathing. He knew it was only a trick of his eyes, but it still gave him the creeps.

He’d dreaded going to sleep lately because of an old dream that had come back to haunt him. He had no idea why it had returned in recent days, causing him to jerk awake every night, a sheen of sweat covering his whole body. Actually, it wasn’t a dream at all—it was a memory.

The memory of his parents’ murder.

What a day that had been, almost eight years ago. A terrible, frightening, horrible, horrible day. Master George had been there. Mistress Jane had been there, too. Others as well, but for some reason he couldn’t remember their faces. But he’d never forget the way the old man had looked that day, or his closest ally—the woman dressed in yellow. He’d never forget. Sato would never, ever forget.

He closed his eyes, knowing the dream would come but giving in to exhaustion, hoping the memory might strengthen his hopes for revenge. Revenge on Mistress Jane.

Revenge . . .

“Yama Kun, come meet our guests!” his mother called from downstairs. She’d always called him that. It meant Little Mountain.

Six-year-old Sato stepped out of his room and slowly walked down the stairs, not wanting to meet a bunch of strangers. While preparing for the big dinner, his father had called them “Realitants” as if any person in the world should know what that meant.

Realitants. A strange word, especially for a six-year-old. But after witnessing what Sato saw that night, the word burned a place in his mind, never to be lost. Realitants. In years to come, he’d end up thinking the word every day, sometimes repeating it aloud as he looked in the mirror. Realitants. The word came to mean evil and death to him, and he made a pact to one day rid the world of them.

He’d known so little back then.