“I’m a really light sleeper, and Adrian said I should find someone who’s willing to trade with my roommate and sleep on the couch.” Her tone made it clear that her original roommate hadn’t seen being kicked out of the bedroom as an acceptable solution. “It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t get enough sleep and got eliminated, you know? I just need to find someone who wants to be a good sport.”

“There are no good sports in this apartment,” said Anders. He managed to sound almost apologetic, like he was really sorry, deep down, about our lack of sportsmanship. “Sorry. I mean, if you wanted to crash on our couch, I’m sure we could work something out, but Lyra and Val are besties . . .”

Lyra and I linked our little fingers and held them solemnly up for inspection.

“. . . and Pax has this whole thing about sleeping in the nude, which means we need to have a door to close between the world and his magnificence. Maybe try the next apartment down? They might be suckers. You never know.”

Jessica looked, briefly, like she was going to stomp her foot in frustration. “This is the last apartment!”

“Well, then pray that whoever winds up with a room to themselves after next week is willing to trade with you.” Anders dropped the sympathetic act. “Of course, you’ll have to do this again once we’re back down to an even number of girls. So I don’t think you’re going to have much luck.”

“I won’t forget this,” said Jessica, and spun on her heel, stalking out of the apartment.

“Uh-huh, kiss noise, bye now,” Anders called after her. He rolled his eyes as he looked around at the rest of us. “Can you say ‘diva’? How does she survive in the real world?”

“I have no idea, but I don’t have to care,” I said. “Come on. Let’s check out the kitchen.”

Hours later—after a group barbecue in the courtyard, during which dancers I’d never met sucked down chicken breasts and tofu dogs like they were about to be made illegal, and everybody was introduced to everybody else, and just as promptly forgot everybody else’s names—the apartment was settling peacefully into sleep. Lyra was still sitting up in her bed, writing the day’s events out in her diary, but that was no big deal; she knew about my nocturnal habits. She looked over, a tolerant expression on her face, as she heard the window slide open.

“Going for a run?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to look sheepish. As far as Lyra knew, I was an insomniac with a fondness for night running. I’d promised her repeatedly during our original season that I wouldn’t be in any danger, and after several nights when I’d returned home uninjured and capable of competing, she had grudgingly chosen to believe me.

“Bring back more eggs,” she said, and went back to her diary.

“You got it,” I said, and slid my legs out through the open window. My backpack was a mostly-empty weight against my lower back. After a quick, perfunctory glance to make sure I wasn’t about to become a new YouTube sensation, I let go of the frame, and I fell.

There’s something gloriously exhilarating about that moment where the body lets go and gravity takes over. It can be easy to forget how much effort goes into every movement the body makes. Even sitting still requires the muscles in your spine, thighs, and butt to work. But falling . . . falling can be a moment of perfect relaxation, at least until it’s time to start thinking about not hitting the ground.

I dropped about six feet, far enough to build some momentum, and more importantly, to carry me to the first-floor windows. I grabbed the top of the sill and used it to twist myself around to where I could catch hold of the rain gutter. It was gritty under my hands. Honestly, if someone wanted to find out which apartment was mine, all they’d have to do was look for the window next to the rain gutter that had been inexplicably wiped clean.

Bracing my feet to either side of the gutter, I slid the rest of the way to the street. I preferred to travel rooftop to rooftop whenever possible, but the Crier Apartments were too far from the surrounding buildings to let me do that without risk of major injury. I let go of the metal pipe, wiped my filthy palms against the seat of my pants, and started down the driveway toward the street.

There was a car parked midway down the drive. It flashed its headlights at me, twice. I was still wearing my wig, still the perfect picture of a dancer sneaking out for a late-night snack run: I composed my expression into one of vague curiosity and trotted over to the car.

The passenger side window rolled down when I got there. Brenna looked across the leather seats, expression solemn. “Get in,” she said. “I’ll give you a ride.”