Rush The Game

I regenerated; we came back with nothing more than a couple of scrapes. And Luka said he’s been part of the game for over a year, getting pulled again and again. He’d been hurt and healed again and again. I was hurt and healed. We got hit by the truck; we respawned in the lobby. We were shot by the Drau; we respawned in real life. But every gash and break and scrape disappeared when we came back.
    It isn’t a game. It’s a nightmare.
    I close that tab and return to Richelle’s page. It makes no sense. Richelle can’t have been dead for— I look at the page and check the dates again.
    How can she have been dead for seven months when I just saw her Friday? I talked to her. Laughed with her.
    My recollections writhe and twist. The bracelet’s your con. The color’s your health. Don’t let it turn red .
    Red.
    Images flash through my thoughts like a strobe light: The truck’s bumper, stained with cherry-juice smears. Blood on the ground. Blood on Luka’s broken arm. Blood staining my jeans dark crimson.
    I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together as I remember Luka’s look of horror when my con turned orange. And right before we got pulled back, Richelle’s screen was red. I saw it. We all saw it. They knew what it meant, but I didn’t. Oh God, I didn’t know.
    Richelle is dead. She’s not coming back.
    With a moan, I lower my head and press the sides of my balled fists against my forehead. My eyes sting. My throat feels thick.
    I thought it was a game. Luka called it that. I know he did. Tyrone treated it like one. Richelle said he wants to sell the rights. . . .
    But Jackson said it was no game. He said it was real, and that what we did determined our survival. I thought he was crazy. I wanted to think he was crazy.
    I’m shaking as I grab my phone. No more texts. No more evasions. I call Luka’s number and when it goes to voice mail, I start to babble, “She’s gone. Oh my God, she’s gone. She’s dead. For real dead. As in dead . I need to talk to you. Please, Luka. I need to talk to you.”
    I hang up and pace the length of my room as I dial his number again, my hands shaking. My stomach churns and rolls.
    Voice mail again. My babbling is even less coherent the second time. And by the third, I’m not even talking, just breathing hard, willing Luka to answer.
    Panting, I stare at my phone. I want to call Carly. I need to call Carly. But I don’t dare drag her into this. I can’t put her in danger. The thought of Carly dead like Richelle is more than I can bear. What if one phone call seals her fate?
    I hear the slam of a car door. I look out to see Dad pulling away. I stare blankly for a second before I recall that at breakfast he told me he planned to do the grocery shopping. I’m alone, all alone, which is both a bad and a good thing. I don’t trust myself at the moment. If Dad hadn’t left, if he’d walked into my room right now, I might have told all.
    At which point he probably would have done a room search for drugs and then hauled me to the ER at Rochester General for a mental health assessment.
    Hugging myself, I rub my palms up and down my upper arms. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, like my skin is too tight, my blood too thin. I turn and stare at my computer and see Richelle looking back at me.
    I dial Luka again. “Luka, please. I’m begging you, pick up. I need to talk. I need—”
    Anger surges and I disconnect the call. I’m alone, and the only person who can help me deal with this is me. Have I learned nothing? Everyone leaves. Gram. Sofu. Mom—
    In the end, you can only rely on you.
    I drag on running gear, lace my shoes, fill a small water bottle and tuck it into the holster at my waist. I’m moving on autopilot, not thinking, just doing.
    I don’t usually— ever —run in the afternoons. I don’t run on Sundays. But this isn’t just any Sunday afternoon.
    Richelle is dead. Richelle is dead. Richelle is dead .
    The thought feels both immediate and distant at the same time. I stare at her picture on the screen and somewhere buried underneath my pain is the calm, cold voice of reason. I need to hide my tracks. The game can’t bleed into real life; Luka made that very clear.
    At least this small thing I can control.
    I stand up and walk over to my computer, double-check that I was set to private browsing, then close the window. I hit Reset. And then I say a silent word of thanks to Carly, who’s always trying to make certain that