Smith’s brow furrows. “I’ve projected more than one person at a time before. It’s just that this is experimental—we’re going into Alyssa’s brain. I have no idea how it might affect her, having all three of us there. With only two of us last time, she seemed to be under a lot of strain, something we only realized once we were back.”

The headache. It wasn’t pleasant, but it’s almost completely gone now. Certainly nothing to worry about.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving off their concern. “Worst case, I can go straight to Cami and she’ll fix me right up.”

“I see you have no problem waking all your friends in the godforsaken hours of the night,” Smith grumbles.

I ignore him and move straight to the armchair, taking my seat again.

Smith and Kael move closer, the former looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here and the latter … Well, Kael looks like that, too, but that’s perhaps because he’s eyeing the messy space with distaste, especially the unsealed bag of corn chips.

“I only have one spare chair, but if you’re not sitting, you’ll risk falling,” Smith says to Kael.

Kael just looks at me pointedly.

I take his cue and say, “Chair.”

My face warms when no light flashes, when Kael raises an eyebrow in question.

I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’m … a bit tired,” I lie, not ready to share the truth about the serum and what’s happening to me. I concentrate and try again. “Chair.”

I let out a slow breath when one appears in a flare of light, identical to Smith’s and resting beside it.

Both boys take their seats. Smith rubs his eyes under his glasses, but Kael is watching me closely. Too closely. I’m preparing another lie as I wait for him to ask, but perhaps he can sense that I’m on the edge of my seat—literally and figuratively—because he lets it slide. But I know he’s worried, and that means he’ll be paying even closer attention to me than normal. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be able to keep from revealing the truth. I’m not even sure why I want to keep it secret. Maybe once I accept what’s happening to me, I’ll be more comfortable sharing. But for now, I’m still in denial.

“Hands,” Smith orders, holding his out for us to clasp. Once we’re all connected, he asks me, “Same memory?”

I shake my head. “There are too many things I don’t know. Let’s try for a new one. Can we … Can we try to find out what happened to me? How, when, and why I lost my memories?”

“No promises,” Smith says. “But I’ll give it a shot.”

His “shot” paid off last time. I’m willing to trust him again.