Rush The Game

this one.”
    So maybe that wasn’t the simplest question. Or was it just the answer that was complicated? “Who are you?”
    “Jackson Tate.” He says only his name, with no elaboration and no follow-up question of his own.
    I jump in and offer, “I’m Miki. Miki Jones.”
    “I know.”
    Right. He knows my name. He’s been calling it all afternoon. In my head.
    I’m about to ask how he did that when I register what he said earlier about all the new arrivals. Put that together with his assertion that this is a lobby, and I’m forced to revisit the impression I had when I first woke up. I blurt out, “Am I—”
    I can’t finish the question. Not out loud. It’s like if I say it out loud, it’ll make it true. I struggle to sit up.
    “No,” he says, but I’m not sure if he’s answering my unspoken question—telling me I’m not dead—or telling me not to move.
    With a bit of effort I manage to sit up. He doesn’t help, but he doesn’t stop me, either. Then he touches my wrist. I glance down to see that I’m wearing a bracelet with a black strap and a rectangular screen that’s filled by a shimmering, swirling pattern.
    I frown. “That’s not mine.”
    “It is now.” His fingertips play across the screen.
    “What are you doing?” A sensation of warmth flows from my wrist to my elbow. It isn’t unpleasant, just unexpected.
    “Activating it.”
    “Uh . . . no you’re not.” I jerk my hand away. “You’re not activating anything until I get some answers.”
    “Yeah, I am. If I don’t activate it, it explodes.” He sounds dead serious.
    “For real?”
    He doesn’t answer, and that pisses me off. But I can’t be certain it isn’t for real, and since I’m fond of having a hand at the end of my arm, I offer my wrist. He finishes running his fingers over the screen. I notice that he’s wearing a bracelet, too. The pattern on mine is silver; the one on his is forest green.
    Except . . . now the one I’m wearing isn’t silver anymore. Whatever he did, he turned mine green, too.
    “What is it?” I ask, feeling like I’m parroting myself . . . what, what, what? But I can’t seem to make my brain come up with anything better.
    “Health.”
    My gaze flashes to his. Sort of. I can’t see his eyes; he’s still wearing those opaque glasses. His expression gives me nothing. “Can you be a little less cryptic?” I snap, and then regret my tone. Biting his head off isn’t likely to get me any answers. The whole catch-more-flies-with-honey thing. But then, I’ve been perfectly polite up till now, and that hasn’t gained me any ground, either.
    I shake my head, and as I do, I realize the headache’s gone. That’s one good thing, at least. Never let it be said that I’m not an optimist. With effort, I modulate my tone. “So . . . the bracelet? You said it’s . . . health ?”
    One brow arches, and he dips his chin toward my wrist. “The bracelet’s your con. The color’s your health. Don’t let it turn red.”
    For a long moment, I stare at him, waiting for the rest of the explanation. It never comes. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
    “Not a gamer, huh?” He sighs. “It means exactly what I said.”
    When I was a kid, my grandfather used to do that: answer my questions with nonanswers or riddles. I doubt Jackson Tate plays that game better than Sofu.
    I change direction and ask, “Would the bracelet really have exploded if you didn’t activate it?”
    There’s a slight pause that makes me think I’ve surprised him by shifting topics. Good. Better that I have him on his toes than he have me on mine.
    “No,” he says, and I think the corners of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile. I’m hit with a weird sense of déjà vu, like I’ve been in this moment before, seen his face, the sun on his hair, that smile. I smell the ocean, hear the waves breaking. Before I can figure it out, he rises and walks away, and the feeling’s gone.
    “Good to know,” I mutter under my breath, sort of getting the last word, but he’s too far away to hear me, so maybe that doesn’t count.
    Pushing up on all fours, I wait for the dizziness to hit. I’m surprised when it doesn’t. I feel fine. Better than fine. Everything’s in perfect working order. I run my palms along my jeans-clad thighs, then tug at the hem of my T-shirt. Even my clothes are intact, as though I never scraped away cloth and skin on the pavement, never cracked my bones into pieces and