I have a feeling that there is something I’m supposed to do.
The crash of another incoming wave distracts me, and I turn to face it head-on, welcoming the water as it spills over me. I flip on my stomach, gracefully riding the wave toward shore. When I reach shallow ground, I push back toward the sea, my legs moving in a fluid and effortless motion. I swim until I lose sight of land, then float on my back, my legs spread out in a V shape, my cheeks soaking up the rays of the aqua-pearl sun. It’s hard to explain the feeling inside me, but I trust the water to deliver me to safety.
By the time I coast back to shore and open my eyes once again, the miles of wild-colored beach have been replaced with a dense, tropical forest that’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I step out of the sea, water droplets lingering on my tanned skin as I walk toward a cluster of leafy, blue-feathered palm trees with cream trunks surrounded by giant flowers with brilliant red and yellow blooms the size of human heads. I turn toward the palm tree and run my fingers over the fuzzy fibers of its pale trunk. It’s soft, like cotton.
My gaze is diverted once again to the sparkling silver ocean, and I smile widely when I notice how all the craggy pockets of land that jut out seem like a long strand of precious multicolored jewels. The azure sun is beginning to set, inching closer and closer to the horizon, so I decide to skip along the shore, my feet splashing in the water. I have so much energy ripping through me that I feel strong enough to move a mountain, but for some reason, all I want to do now is collect the violet and minty green seashells that are scattered everywhere I look.
I wander and search for a while, although I have no idea for how long. But I stop when my shadow grows tall and only a small sliver of the sun remains. I breathe in the fresh air, which is tinged with a fragrance of hibiscus, determined to capture this feeling of freedom and bottle it up inside me forever.
I bend down to pick up another shell—a dark burgundy one with lots of coarse ridges—when I notice something peculiar. Off in the distance is a grayish, fuzzy wall that extends into the sky like an impenetrable fog. I feel a tingling near the base of my neck as I’m overcome with a sense of purpose.
I’ve left something unresolved.
What is it?
The sky is fading from peach to black as the remaining sun recedes behind a cluster of blood-red clouds.
The firewall.
I came to Elusion to find the firewall.
I drop the shells and begin to run toward the looming curtain of gray in front of me. The breeze transforms into a strong wind, blowing my strawberry-blond hair in all directions. I follow the shoreline, watching how the light colors become swallowed by darker ones. The water is changing too, the silver hue being consumed by inky darkness.
I hear a thunderous crack, followed by another and then another. And suddenly, I stop.
I’m not alone.
There’s a man standing nearly two hundred feet in front of the wall that reaches toward the heavens. He’s not facing the water but staring directly at me, as though he’s been waiting here for my arrival.
I know there’s an emergency button on my wristband that would send me spiraling back to the real world, but I’m not afraid.
Even in the darkness, I recognize him.
His lips slide up in an all-too-familiar grin. “Regan,” he breathes.
And then I’m racing toward him as fast as I can, my heart lodging itself in my throat. As soon as he’s in range, I throw my arms around his neck, clinging to him so tight I might crush him and nestling my face in his chest. He holds me, cradling my head with his warm hands.
“My girl,” he whispers.
This is real. He is real. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.
“Oh my God, Dad. I thought you were dead,” I murmur through chattering teeth.
My father pulls back abruptly, staring desperately into my eyes.
“Listen to me. You’re not safe,” he says, shaking me by the shoulders. “No one is safe. You need to find me. . . . I’m—”
All of a sudden, I can’t hear him anymore. My ears are flooded with a deafening bolt of static, and though his lips are moving, I have no clue what he’s saying. The crackling sound gets so loud I almost let him go to cover my ears with my hands, but then a hurricane-force gust wallops us both, threatening to rip us apart. I grip his arms, and he holds on to me, his face straining while our bodies buckle under the intense pressure. The windstorm funnels around his legs, lifting them off the ground.
“Don’t let go, Dad!” I shout. “Don’t. Let. Go!”
But it’s no use. Something enormous and invisible erupts from the sky and plucks him out of my grasp with one greedy snap. I scream, my arms feeling like they’re trapped in quicksand. I watch, helpless, frozen in place as he is taken away from me, sucked into the fuzzy gray wall as though he is being eaten alive by an insidious monster.
Then I’m slapped by a quick flash of white light, and in one frightening instant . . .
I’m home.
I can’t open my eyes or move my legs. The only thing I can control is my left hand, which I use to peel off my Equip visor in one sluggish movement. I try to lift my head, but it feels like I’m being weighed down by hundreds of wet stones.
I lie there, as what I just saw sinks in.
My father. He was right in front of me. I talked to him and held him in my arms.
I need to figure out what’s happening. I have to call Patrick and tell him everything—even if I’m not sure what it all means.
Another minute passes by, maybe two, and I’m able to open my eyes. I’m sprawled on the couch, facing up so my gaze is trained on the ceiling. I crane my neck and push my shoulders forward, but then nausea hits my stomach, knocking me flat on my back. My head is pounding and my ears are ringing. I try to swing my arm down so I can grab my bag—my tab is in one of the interior pockets—but my arm still doesn’t have full function yet.
I have to fight through this. After another thirty seconds, I regain a little more strength and slowly lower my trembling hand toward my bag. Thankfully, I left the zipper open, so when my hand dips inside for my tab, my fingertips graze the smooth, slippery touch screen. I’m unable to grasp it. I try again, focusing harder this time, pitting myself against the stiffness that’s disappearing from my muscles.
Finally, I manage to wrap my fingers around the tablet, pull it out of my bag, and drag it up to my face. When I pull out my earbuds and press the Call button, I open my mouth to say Patrick’s name—his number was the first one I entered into my voice-activated dialing list—but nothing comes out. It’s like my throat is coated with the Florapetro grit I sometimes inhale when I forget my O2 shield.