Nothing.

This time the exhaustion drives into me with such violent force I feel like my bones are cracking, like my eyes are melting, like I’m looking at the world through cellophane. Everything takes on a slightly metallic sheen, glassy and blurred. And then, for the first time, I realize— This doesn’t feel like normal exhaustion.

It’s too late, though. Way too late to realize that I might be more than just really, really tired.

Hell, I think I might be dying.

Stephan says something. I don’t hear him.

Nazeera says something. I don’t hear her.

Some still-functioning part of my brain tells me to go back to my room and die in peace, but when I try to take a step forward, I stumble.

Weird.

I take another step forward, but this time, it’s worse. My legs tangle and I trip, only catching myself at the last moment.

Everything feels wrong.

The sounds in my head seem to be getting louder. I can’t open my eyes fully. The air around me feels tight—compressed—and I try to say I feel so strange but it’s useless. All I know is that I feel suddenly cold. Freezing hot.

Wait. That’s not right.

I frown.

“Kenji?”

The word comes to me from far away. Underwater. My eyes are closed now, and it feels like they’ll stay that way forever. And then— Everything smells different. Like dirt and wet and cold. Weird. Something is tickling my face. Grass? When did I get grass on my face?

“Kenji!”

Oh. Oh. Not cool. Someone is shaking me, hard, rattling my brain around in my skull and something, some ancient instinct, pries the rusted hinges of my eyelids open, but when I try to focus, I can’t. Everything is soft. Mushy.

Someone is shouting. Someones. Wait, what’s the plural of someone? I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many people say my name at the same time. Kenji kenji kenji kenjikenjikenji I try to laugh.

And then I see her. There she is. Man, this is a nice dream. But there she is. She’s touching my face. I turn my head a little, rest my cheek against the smooth, soft palm of her hand. It feels amazing.

Nazeera.

So fucking beautiful, I think.

And then I’m gone.

Weightless.

Eight

When I open my eyes, I see spiders.

Eyes and arms, eyes and arms, eyes and arms everywhere. Magnified. Up close. A thousand eyes, round and shining. Hundreds of arms reaching toward me, around me.

I close my eyes again.

It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of spiders, otherwise I think I’d be screaming. But I’ve learned to live with spiders. I lived with them in the orphanage, on the streets at night, underground at Omega Point. They hide in my shoes, under my bed, capture flies in the corners of my room. I usually nudge them back outside, but I never kill them. We have an understanding, spiders and I. We’re cool.

But I’ve never heard spiders before.

And these things are loud. It’s a lot of discordant noise, a lot of humming, vibrating nonsense I can’t separate into sounds. But then, slowly, they begin to separate. Find forms.

I realize they’re voices.

“You’re right that it’s unusual,” someone says. “It’s definitely strange that he’d be experiencing any lingering effects this long afterward—but it’s not unheard of.”

“That theory makes no sense—”

“Nazeera.” That sounds like Haider. “These are their healers. I’m sure they would know what—”

“I don’t care,” she says sharply. “I happen to disagree. Kenji’s been fine these last couple of days, and I would know; I was with him. This is an absurd diagnosis. It’s irresponsible to suggest that he’s being affected by drugs that were administered days ago, when the underlying cause is unequivocally something else.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.

Finally, I hear someone sigh.

“You may find this hard to believe, but what we do isn’t magic. We deal in actual science. We can, within certain parameters, heal an ill or injured person. We can regrow tissue and bone and replenish blood loss, but we can’t do much for . . . food poisoning, for example. Or a hangover. Or chronic exhaustion. There are still many ills and illnesses we can’t yet cure.” That must be Sara. Or Sonya. Or both. I can’t always tell their voices apart.

“And right now,” one of them says, “despite our best efforts, Kenji still has these drugs in his system. They have to run their course.”

“But— There has to be something—”

“Kenji’s been running on pure adrenaline these last thirty-six hours,” one of the twins says. “The highs and lows are devastating his body, and sleep deprivation is making him more susceptible to the effects of the drugs.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Nazeera asks.

“Not if he doesn’t sleep.”

“What does that mean?” J. Jella. Jello. That’s her voice. She sounds terrified. “How serious is the damage? How long could it take for him to recover?”

And then, as my mind continues to sharpen, I realize that the twins are talking in tandem, completing each other’s thoughts and sentences so it seems like only one person is speaking. That makes more sense.