When we reached the Sentinel’s storefront, the doorknob wouldn’t turn.

“Look,” Jordan said, nodding toward a sheet of orange paper taped to the window. It said the office had been shuttered by order of the Department of Health.

“What?” I said. “Since when does Mount Hope have a Department of Health?”

“Yeah, and it’s not like the place was serving food,” Jordan added.

The window notice had today’s date on it, so someone had gotten up even earlier than we had.

“So much for freedom of the press,” I said, standing there staring at the dark office. “Someone is trying to keep us uninformed and submissive. It won’t work.”

“No?”

“No, Jordan, it won’t. People aren’t going to put up with this. Everyone knows people who died in that explosion. The animals are going crazy, and roadblocks are keeping us trapped in this town. Now the newspaper has been shut down.”

“Maggie, no offense, but do you think many people will notice if they don’t get their Sentinel this week?”

“Yes, Jordan, I do,” I said, feeling heat rising in my cheeks. “Because even a crappy newspaper like the Sentinel is needed in times like this. Who posted this sign? Where are Ronnie and Lizzie, and what do they have to say? Who’s trying to keep us from learning the truth?”

Jordan put his hands on my shoulders and turned me toward him. “Maggie, some people don’t want to learn the truth, even when you tell it to their faces.”

“I know,” I said. “When the world gets really crazy, people would rather shut their ears and eyes than process all the difficult, complicated things going on. It’s easier to pretend that everything is okay so you can move forward with your day.”

“Yes,” Jordan said. “Remember that the next time someone close to you tells you something true that you don’t want to believe.”

Oof.

Jordan removed his hands from my shoulders and started walking down Main Street.

“Where are you going?” I called out.

“School. Remember?”

CHAPTER 33

Jordan

THERE WAS NOTHING fancy about Mount Hope High, a classic one-story, redbrick, tall-windowed school building. It was built in the late ’50s, and the clang of metal locker doors echoed off the linoleum floors of the narrow hallways, all scented with a mix of industrial cleaners, mildew, and, especially on scorching September days, teenage BO.

But when Maggie and I and the rest of our classmates entered for the long-delayed start of this school year, the place smelled like chocolate-chip cookies, as if the school were being staged for a real-estate sale by a savvy broker. Everything looked shinier than I remembered it, too; the locker doors didn’t feel quite so wobbly, and the desk in my first class, U.S. History, was perfectly level with the floor.

Some of the kids in that first class, such as mathletes Missy Shimpkins and Bart Longley, glanced over at me furtively, as if they’d heard about my injuries or assault on two of their classmates and were trying to assess the monster in their presence. I gave them a broad smile and a nod—Hey, I’m still that friendly guy!