Jackson bites off half a sandwich, chews, swallows. “I’ve gone up to three months without getting pulled,” he says. “A few weeks isn’t unusual. Be happy for the break.”

“How do you handle the not knowing?”

He shrugs. “I can’t control it. I know that, so I don’t even try. When it happens, it happens. I’m not going to waste my good moments by obsessing about the bad. The Beast in the Jungle, right?”

“What’s that?”

He finishes his sandwich and eyes the half of mine I haven’t gotten to yet. “You going to eat that?” he asks, reaching for it.

I shift the container out of his reach. “Yes.” Then I dig through my pack and pull out another container. “But I made extra.” I hand him his second sandwich.

“You are a goddess,” he says around a mouthful.

“Your turn to make lunch tomorrow,” I remind him. “And no cheating by buying crap in the caf like you did last time. So . . . The Beast in the Jungle?”

The wind catches my hair, blowing it all around. I reach back and gather it in my fist, then tuck the length under my collar, down the back of my—Jackson’s—jacket.

“It’s a story by Henry James.” Jackson catches a stray strand and tucks it in with the others. “It’s about a guy who’s obsessed with the belief that something catastrophic is going to happen to him, like a beast waiting to pounce, so he wastes his whole life, afraid to do anything that’ll encourage it. Terrified. Waiting for it to happen.”

“So what happens? What’s the catastrophic thing?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. Nothing terrible happens. The catastrophe that gets him in the end is the fact that he didn’t really live. He was too afraid.”

“Sounds like an uplifting read.” And it sort of sounds like my panic attacks.

I put my empty container back in my pack, watching Carly run down the stairs shrieking and laughing, with Luka a step behind.

“Sometimes everything feels too big,” I say. “The Drau. The threat. Knowing that they’ve already destroyed at least one entire species and now they’re after us. The future of the whole world weighing on our shoulders.” Carly shrieks as Luka catches her, then breaks away and darts off. I gesture at them. “Regular high-school life just doesn’t seem important.”

“It’s the most important,” Jackson says. He shifts us both around so we’re straddling the metal bench, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me from behind. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “When we beat the Drau, this is the life we’ll still have, Miki. This is what matters most. Our families. Our friends. This is exactly what we’re fighting for. This moment, and a thousand others just like it.”

I twist my head to look back at him over my shoulder. “When we beat the Drau? You say that like you have insider knowledge of the exact day and time. You know something I don’t?”

Jackson looks away, like he’s avoiding an answer, and for a second a chill grabs hold of me, turning my blood to ice. What isn’t he telling me?

Then I look where he’s looking to see Dee sprint past Luka and tackle Carly to the ground. Luka trips over them and all three land in a heap, laughing, caught up in their game. Luka lifts his head, catches my eye, and for a second he looks almost guilty. For what? For having fun?

His gaze shifts to Jackson and it’s like the three of us are connected, thinking about another game where it isn’t about fun.

“Two against one. Unfair advantage. Take ’em down,” Jackson yells, and Luka grabs Dee’s ankle just as she gets to her feet. She’s back on the ground, laughing.

Her joy is infectious, pushing past my barriers and doubts and fear, trickling through me like sunshine.

“You’re right,” I say. “This is what we’re fighting for. This moment. That’s what matters.”

I jump to my feet and toss Jackson’s jacket in his lap.

“Race you!”

And then I leap from bench to bench, tearing down toward the field with Jackson hot on my heels.

The ringing of the phone wakes me. I roll over, the last vestiges of a great dream about me and Jackson and a dog and a beach still clinging to my thoughts. I check the time—1:00 a.m.—then check the number. Carly.

Worry uncoils, rattling and baring venomous fangs.

“Hey,” I say.

She doesn’t answer right away.

I sit bolt upright, tightening my grip on my phone as I flick on my bedside lamp. “Carly?”

A gasp followed by a shaky exhalation.

Images flash through my thoughts of blood and death and the Drau darting through Carly’s house like bright reapers.

“Carly, what’s wrong?” I throw back the covers and jump to my feet, ready to wake Dad, to head over there. I reach for my jeans, dragging them on one-handed. I’m struggling to get my second leg all the way in when she lets out a gasping sob.

“Miki.”

“I’m here, Carly. What’s wrong?” I demand, my voice hard and tight with fear. I get my jeans the rest of the way on and pace the length of my room, waiting for her answer.

“Grammy B,” she whispers.

Grammy B is Carly’s mom’s mom. She’s funny and fun, and I have great memories of her from before she moved to Florida to help Carly’s aunt Melanie through her divorce. That was three years ago. She stayed on to help watch Carly’s little cousins while Mel works. She says she likes feeling needed and she was here to help Carly’s mom with her brood when they were small, so it’s Mel’s turn now.