Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal, sang a voice in his head. His stomach twisted.

Retake? prompted the computer.

He clicked yes. This time he didn’t look straight at the camera, but just above it. No luck. The same dark smudge still obscured his gaze. August tried again and again and again, each time cheating his eyes a fraction to the left or the right, high or low, the smudge of black shifting, sometimes thinning, but always there. His vision filled with dots of light, a dozen flashes every time he blinked. The last take stared back at him from the screen, his eyes obscured by the same black streak, but a small, frustrated crease visible in his brow. He shouldn’t have bothered, should have known it wouldn’t work, but he’d hoped . . . for what?

A chance to play at being human? chided his brother’s voice.

Sing you a song and steal your soul.

He shook his head.

Bang.

Too many voices.

Retake? prompted the computer.

August’s finger hovered over no, but after a moment, he clicked yes. One more time. He stepped in front of the screen, took a deep breath, and readied himself for the inevitable flash, the disappointment of a final failed attempt. But the flash never came. He heard the digital click of the camera, but the light must have glitched. He crossed to the screen, heart thumping, and looked.

His breath caught.

The boy on the screen was standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. He wasn’t looking at the camera. His eyes were half-lidded, his head turned away, the faintest blur to his edges, a picture snapped midmotion. But it was him. No black streak. No empty gaze.

August exhaled a shuddering breath, and clicked print, and a minute later the machine spat out his ID. He stared at the image for several long seconds, transfixed, then pocketed the card, and slipped out of the office just as the bell rang for lunch. He was halfway to his locker when a voice called his name. Well, Freddie’s name.

He turned to find Colin, flanked by a boy on one side and a girl on the other. “Alex and Sam, this is Freddie,” he said by way of introduction. “Freddie, Alex and Sam.”

August wasn’t sure which one was Alex and which was Sam.

“Hey,” said one of them.

“Hey,” echoed the other.

“Hello,” said August.

Colin swung an arm around his shoulder, which was hard to do considering he was a full six inches shorter. August tensed at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away. “You look lost.”

August started to shake his head, when Colin cut him off.

“You hungry?” he asked cheerfully. “I’m starving, let’s get some lunch.”

“. . . gives me the creeps.”

“. . . party this weekend . . .”

“. . . such an *.”

“. . . Jack and Charlotte an item?”

August stared down at his half-eaten food.

The cafeteria was loud—much louder than he’d expected—the constant clatter of trays and laughter and shouts as staccato as gunfire, but he tried not to think about that and instead focused on the green apple he was rolling between his hands. Apples were his favorite food, not because of the way they tasted, but because of how they felt. The cool, smooth skin, the solid weight. But he could feel Sam—that was the girl, it turned out—watching him, so he brought the apple to his mouth and bit down, fighting back a grimace.

August could eat, but he didn’t enjoy it. The act wasn’t repulsive. It was just . . . people talked about the decadence of chocolate cake, the sweetness of peaches, the groan-inducing pleasure of a good steak. To them, every food was an experience.

To August, it all tasted the same. And it all tasted like nothing.

“That’s because it’s people food,” Leo would say.

“I’m a person,” he’d say, tensing.

“No.” His brother would shake his head. “You’re not.”

August knew that he meant, You’re more. But it didn’t make him feel like more. It made him feel like an impostor.

Now, the way other people felt about food, that’s how August felt about music. He could savor each note, taste the melody. The thought made his tallies prickle, his fingers ache for the violin. Across the table, Colin was telling a story. August wasn’t listening, but he was watching. As Colin talked, his face went through an acrobatic procession of expressions, one folding into the next.

August took a second bite, chewed, swallowed, and set the apple down.

Sam leaned forward. “Not hungry?”

Before August could show her the half-eaten contents of his bag, Colin cut in.

“I’m always hungry,” he said with his mouth full. “Like, always.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed.”

The boy, Alex, speared a piece of fruit. “So, Frederick,” he said, emphasizing every syllable in the name. “Colton doesn’t get a lot of new blood. You get thrown out of one of the other academies?”

“I heard she got kicked out,” whispered Colin. He didn’t have to say who.

“That’s not the only reason people change schools,” said Sam, turning to Alex. “Just because you got tossed—”

“It was a voluntary transfer!” said Alex, turning his attention back to August. “Well? Expulsion? Transfer? Bang a teacher?”