“No!” he shouted, which was probably the worst possible response to give, and he shut the door forcefully again.

What was happening? This was a disaster!

“I need to be backstage,” he said out loud. “Please.”

This time, he inched the door open slowly.

And was face-to-face with Mrs. Caroline.

She stuck her hand out and held the door. “Mr. Muñoz,” she said. “You cannot keep interrupting me, and you should be on your way to the auditorium.”

Her gaze drifted above Héctor’s head.

And behind him.

Into the Room.

Which, to Héctor, still looked like a closet.

Which, to Mrs. Caroline, would be literally impossible.

He held his breath.

But she just looked back down at him. “Do you need anything?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

“No,” he said, the word rushing out with the air he’d been holding back. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Caroline. I’ll leave you alone.”

She stepped back, confusion on her face, and he closed the door.

He was sweating. This was worse than he could have imagined. The Misfits were supposed to lead Mike and Frank to Héctor. If he wasn’t there at the end, this would fall apart in a second. Should he just run for it? Oh, God, how would that work? The second any teacher saw him trying to get near the stage, he’d be caught.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to be backstage.”

He opened the door.

Ms. Heath’s office was across the hall.

Shut.

Opened.

Mr. Giles’s office—the vice principal?

“Stop it!” he screamed, his voice echoing in the hallway.

Shut.

Opened.

Home. HOME?!

The Room had brought him home.

He stared at his own bedroom, his colorful cobija beckoning to him, some clothes spread at the foot of his bed.

“Héctor?”

No.

Abuela Sonia’s voice.

“¿Eres tú, Héctor?”

Why was this happening to him?

He slammed the door one last time.

When Héctor turned around, there was just a small gray couch in the middle of the Room. No TV. No fridge. No games. But he didn’t even make it there; he collapsed on the ground where he stood and began to cry in frustration.

“This isn’t what I want!” he screamed, and he pounded a fist against the floor. “Who are you? Why won’t you give me what I need?”

He looked up.

He was met with silence.

Because of course he was.

This was just a room. Not a person. Not a living thing. It might have been magical in ways he could not understand, but . . . it was still a room.

He stood up and wiped the snot away. He placed a hand on the door.

“Please,” he said. “I can’t do what you want me to. I can’t talk to those people.”

He sniffled. “I have to do this my way.”

Héctor gripped the handle.

“Please. Let me do this.”