“Yes, very sure,” I mumble. I flick the switch, and—to my relief—the beetle’s limbs go limp in my hand.

For a moment there, I thought maybe he would refuse to shut off. But that’s a stupid and impossible thought.

I look up at the analog clock on my wall—one of the little quirks of my favorite hideaway. I note the time, then grab a piece of paper to scribble down a message.

Z, JUST GONE TO FIND PAUL. BBS.

I stick it up with a small piece of tape, then I lock the cage with Slick inside. I traipse down through the maze of lockers looking for my favorite fellow tinkerer. Paul has been in the underground companioneering business for much longer than me (decades longer), and if there’s anyone who might have a scarab beetle schematic tucked away in the corner of his locker, it’s him. He used to work for Moncha Corp back in the day, but I’m not sure what his job was. He’s a very private person, and I’ve never wanted to pry.

It’s a bit eerie down here late at night, with only pale yellow spotlights to guide me around the concrete and metal jungle, but it’s my happy place. I like it best when I know there’s going to be no one else around to bump into—no one carting down their skis or rooting around for their Christmas lights.

I can hear the tap of a hammer on metal, and I pick up my pace. He’s the only other person I know who would be working down here at dinnertime.

But when I get to his locker, it’s almost completely dark. I press my face up to the wire mesh and peer into the darkness.

“Slick, turn on the light,” I say on autopilot, forgetting I left Slick turned off in my locker.

Then, I scream and jump back. A face appears on the other side of the locker. A tiny little monkey face. I can’t help but giggle as my initial fear dissolves.

“Hi, George!” I say.

>>Good evening, Lacey.

“Hey, tinkerer,” says Paul’s gruff voice. “Excuse George’s behavior—we don’t get much chance for a bit of fun around here.” His face flickers into view as he turns back on the overhead light. “It’s good to see you. How are you feeling?”

I grin, glad for some laughter in what has been a stressful evening. “I’m much better, thanks Paul.”

“Good to hear, good to hear. Nasty business, hypothermia.” That must be the official story Mom has been telling people to explain my hospital stay. “And where’s that little cat baku of yours?” He looks down around my feet, searching for Jinx.

I feel my face burn, and I hope I haven’t gone too red. “Something happened…I had to change bakus,” I mutter, shrugging my shoulders.