With a sigh, I text Luka. Twenty minutes later, he’s at my door. “What’s up?”

“I need you to look at something.”

“Okay.” He steps into the hall as I pull the door open. “How come you called me instead of Jackson?”

“Two reasons,” I say. A few weeks ago, Luka acted all territorial a couple of times in the game. It made me wonder if he was into me. But lately, I’ve had the feeling he’s into Carly. Hard to tell. “First, I just think you have this relationship with Carly.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“I mean, a friendship . . . that you’re friends with her—”

“So’s Jackson.” He gives me a weird look.

“Second,” I continue as if he hadn’t interrupted, “Jackson took his mom grocery shopping because her car’s in the sho—” I break off as Luka laughs. “What?” I ask.

“When you met him, did you ever picture him taking his mom shopping?”

“Honestly? I never pictured him having a family.”

“You thought he just sort of arrived in the world preformed. Spawned.”

My turn to laugh. “Pretty much.”

Luka’s expression turns serious. “So what’s going on with Carly? Did you hear from her? She okay?”

“She’s okay.” Until she finds out about the fish. “Shoes,” I remind him.

He toes off his sneakers. House rules. Mom never let anyone wear shoes in the house, so I don’t, either. Just like Sofu never let anyone wear shoes in the dojo. It just isn’t something you do.

I lead him into the den. “Well?”

“Well what?” he spreads his hands.

“Is it dead?”

He looks at me. Looks around again. Finally spots the bowl sitting on the end table.

“Uh . . .” He stares at the bowl, reaches in, stirs the water in circles, stares at the fish, then pulls his hand out and looks for something to wipe it on. He’s reaching for the afghan that’s draped over the back of the sofa, the one my mom made when she was pregnant with me. I lunge for it and get it out of harm’s way.

“Use your jeans,” I say.

“It’s either dead, or”—he wipes first the front then the back of his hand on his jeans—“There’s no ‘or.’ It’s dead.”

“Oh God.” I bury my face in my hands. “I killed Carly’s fish.”

“Are you sure you killed it? If this is the same one she had before I went to Seattle, it’s, like . . . what . . . more than two years old? Maybe it just died of natural causes.”

“It’s still dead. After I promised I’d take care of it. What do we do?”

“We?” Luka’s brows shoot up. “You just tell her you’re sorry. I don’t know. Offer to hold a fish funeral?”

The front door slams. “Miki?”

“I killed Carly’s fish,” I wail.

Dad wanders into the den. Luka offers his hand.

“Don’t shake that,” I warn Dad. “He just had it in the water with the dead fish.”

“Right. Because it isn’t like I haul fish out of the lake all the time,” Dad says with a grin. Which is true, him being a fishing fanatic and all.

Still, he does this sort of half-wave-half-salute thing instead of shaking Luka’s hand.

Luka scrubs his hand on his thigh, then shoves it in his pocket.

Dad peers at the fish. “Buy her a new one. Make sure you look for one that has the same red tinge on the front fins.”

“You mean, like, don’t tell her the old one died?” Luka asks. “Just get her a replacement and try to pass it off?”

Dad shrugs. “That’s what I did with Miki’s turtle when she was six.”

“What?” I gasp. “Yurtle? You tricked me? What kind of thing is that to do to a six-year-old?”

“Better than having you freak out over the dead turtle. You never knew a thing. Yurtle one, two, and three kicked off within a couple of months of one another. Four stuck around for a while.”

I stare at his back as he wanders to the kitchen.

I remember my parents telling me Yurtle got out of his tank, that we might not find him. And I remember freaking out. Next morning, there was Yurtle, back in the tank. Was that version two, three, or four?

Was it better to let me blithely believe it was the same turtle all along? Or should my parents have told me the truth?

I agonize over the fish thing for hours. Actually, Luka and I rent a movie and I agonize intermittently during the slow parts.

As the final credits roll, I shift on the couch so I’m facing Luka with my legs crossed. A quick check reveals Dad to be nowhere in the near vicinity; he wandered upstairs about an hour ago and hasn’t come back down yet. Still, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Can I ask you some stuff?”

Luka narrows his eyes at me. “Depends on what sort of stuff.”

“Have you ever had nightmares about the game?”

“Not lately, but in the beginning, yeah. I was pretty freaked when I first got pulled.” He’s told me that before, when we finally talked after Richelle got killed. He studies my face for a few seconds, then asks, “Are you having nightmares?”

I nod. “Some. Not a lot. One that was different, though. It was weird. I know you said you didn’t see the girl who helped me when I got hurt last time”—and the Committee had claimed the same: that they hadn’t sent any other teams on that mission, that I was alone—“but I dreamed about her. She looked like Lizzie.”