Gil is glaring at me harshly from the edge of the arena. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed that I’m proving myself completely useless, or angry that I’m dragging this out.

I place myself in front of the locked box and squeeze my fists stubbornly. My thoughts race like swirls of color, impossible to grab hold of. It’s not over yet. All you have to do is try, I tell myself.

Shutting my eyes, I remember what it felt like to push the shrapnel from my leg. What it felt like to will something into reality.

I imagine a key turning into place and the lock clicking in response. Make it real, I order. Make this work.

My eyes open. The box remains fixed in place, and the lid is closed. Locked.

“I can’t do it,” I say with resignation.

Whispers spark across the crowd. Some of the strangers start to retreat up the stairs, realizing the show is over. Some of them stay behind. I think it might be their way of showing support, but it only makes me feel worse.

Annika sweeps a hand over the shattered bits of bowl, and they rise into the air, floating toward me before landing on the table. With a flick of her wrist, the shards find one another, molding back together until there isn’t a single crack left.

I pick up the fallen apple and return it to the bowl, ears burning.

“It’s unusual for someone to have no control over their consciousness at all,” Annika admits slowly, voice breaking through the horrible silence. Her amber eyes find mine. “Maybe the real question you should ask yourself is whether you want to do this.”

I stare at the table as every emotion bubbles through me, leaving my throat scratchy and hoarse. “How can I want this? I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be alive.”

Annika steps around the table and places a hand over my shoulder. “It’s hard enough to accept death when we think paradise is waiting on the other side. So to find out we’re in the midst of a war?” She offers a smile. “I don’t blame you for feeling confused.”

“I failed your test,” I point out dolefully.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try again.” Ahmet appears with Theo and Shura. His peppered hair is neatly combed, but he has the eyes of someone who hasn’t properly rested in a very long time. “You just need a little help. A little more time.”

“Yeah,” Shura agrees, pink hair twisted into a messy bun. “I mean, you at least got the bowl to move. It would’ve been more embarrassing if you hadn’t even moved a single—what? Why are you looking at me like that?” She frowns at Theo’s widening eyes.