“It’s an in-joke,” he says, spreading his hands palms up in a gesture of conciliation. “Gaming term. First-person shooters carry a ton of weapons. They pull out a big one, like . . . a bazooka? They run slower. They pull out something small . . . say . . . a knife? They run faster.”

I nod. “Even though they should be running at the same speed, because either way, they’re carrying the same amount of weapons, right?”

“Right. First game that concept appeared in was Counter-Strike,” Jackson says.

Luka glances at him. There’s some sort of guy exchange between them that involves nods and knowing smirks, as if that bit of trivia is super important. Whatever.

Jackson turns to me. “You still don’t get a knife, no matter how fast it’ll make you run. If your enemy grabs it, he can use it to gut you.”

“Thanks for the graphics.” He’s right. Even though I know quite a bit about kendo swords, I know nothing about knives. But I can learn. I mentally move “knife research” to the top of my to-do list for when I get back. If I get back. I close my fist tight and dig my nails into my palm. When I get back. “So how come you know how to use a knife?”

Jackson tips his head, and for a second I think he isn’t going to answer—answering questions isn’t exactly his forte. Then he says, “Combat application technique training.”

“Seriously?” Luka asks, looking impressed. “Like, you took a class? They actually have a class?”

“Yeah. Eleven months of training in Fort Worth.”

“I’ve known you for a year, and you’re only telling me this now?” Luka asks.

But that’s just it. Jackson wasn’t telling Luka, he was telling me. A small distinction, but one that matters, though I don’t exactly know why. I’ll figure it out. I just need to come at it from a different direction.

In typical Jackson fashion he closes the topic right when it’s getting interesting. “Discussion time’s over. Let’s move.”

I cast a look over my shoulder at Tyrone. He hasn’t said a word. He’s just standing there, jaw clenched, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

Luka collects his weapon, then turns back to Jackson. “Four isn’t enough. We’ve never gone with less than five.”

“Four’s what we have.”

Never gone with less than five. I freeze. I was the fifth last time. I was the new addition because someone didn’t make it back, didn’t respawn. Who? A boy? A girl? What did he look like? What were his dreams? And how could Jackson and Luka and Tyrone bear to lose Richelle so soon after losing someone else?

Snippets of a forgotten conversation come at me—Richelle’s and Tyrone’s voices from the first time I respawned in the lobby.

“. . . selfish jerk . . . Put all of us at risk so many times. Hanging back and stealing the hit points . . . all he cared about was himself and getting out . . .”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved to . . .”

“He put you at risk. As far as I’m concerned, that means he deserved . . .”

Their words meant nothing to me at the time, but now I get it. They were talking about the boy who didn’t come back, the boy I replaced.

Horrified, I whisper, “You’re expecting a replacement for Richelle to show up.”

Luka cuts me a glance and nods, lips set in a tight line, all traces of his grin gone.

“But no one’s coming.” I look at Jackson, who has his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned away from me.

“How do you know no one’s coming?” Tyrone asks, speaking for the first time.

“Isn’t that the question,” Luka mutters. “But you don’t answer questions, do you, Jack? You just bark orders. And step in and take over. You’re good at that, too, aren’t you?”

Jackson turns his head, saying nothing. I don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s glaring at Luka.

For about three seconds, I’m completely confused. What happened to the easy camaraderie of a minute ago? Luka’s gaze flicks to me, then away. Suspicion blooms. Their little macho display isn’t just about the number of people in the clearing. It’s about me and Jackson running together. It’s about Jackson getting to me before Luka did. At least, I think it is. I’m about to tell them to knock it off when I’m hit by doubts, unsure why I’d imagine this new tension has anything to do with me. It’s just a feeling, one without substance.

This is one of those moments that I wish Carly were here because she’d be able to call it for what it is.

The second I think that, I feel sick. I don’t want Carly anywhere near here. I don’t want her involved in this nightmare. I want her safe and happy and normal. I want everyone I care about to be safe and happy and normal.

But as I look at Luka and Jackson and Tyrone, I realize that I’m not going to get what I want because somewhere in the past few crazy days, they’ve been added to the list of people I care about.

“Four weapon cylinders in the box,” I say. “That’s how he knew.” I turn away and head over to Tyrone, who’s standing by the same boulder that he was sitting on the first time I came to the lobby. But this time, Richelle isn’t there beside him. He looks pale, sick, exhausted. I remember the way he knelt beside Richelle’s body. I remember his sobs.

“This is too soon.” He repeats what Luka said earlier, but there’s no emotion behind the words. His tone’s flat, his expression even flatter.