“Because no one at your house does them, anyway? Since everyone’s a mess?”
“Right,” I say.
“Hey, I have a question,” Glenys says. “I forgot one of my passwords and the reminder prompt is ‘Best friend.’ I figured it would be Nell, of course, but that didn’t work. Do you know what I put for that?”
It feels like all my insides just dropped out, like a flip-top box full of blocks that just got dumped onto the rug by one of Glenys’s little brothers. It’s hard to type because my hands start shaking. When she didn’t respond to our own secret questions, I knew—this couldn’t be Glenys. But now I really know. This has to be Glenys’s mother, snooping. If the hint is “Best friend,” that’s me, but Glenys probably used Mell, with an M, which is a nickname we use just between the two of us. Glenys would never forget. Never.
“It was probably one of your best friends from before we met,” I say. “Like that girl from church camp in fifth grade.”
“Oh, probably,” says Glenys’s mother, who apparently doesn’t remember that when Glenys went to church camp in fifth grade, she was bullied relentlessly and made no friends. “So, how is school?”
“Fine,” I say.
“I’ve gotta go,” Glenys’s mom says. “But it was great to talk to you!” She blinks out.
I stare at my phone for a minute and then at the wall, the mustard-yellow wall with the three patches of sky blue painted on it. My eyes are blurry, and it’s almost like staring at a patch of sky through mustard-yellow bars.
The very first time we ever kissed, Glenys said that if her parents ever found out, they’d pack her off to some Cure Lesbianism with Jesus place even if technically they’re illegal. That’s what I’ve been worried about ever since my mother disappeared and Glenys didn’t get in touch. But how did they find out? How did anyone find out?
The paint cans are still sitting on the drop cloth on my desk, and I hurl them at the wall; I’d expected paint spatters everywhere, but Thing Two used most of what was inside painting the patches on the wall. I rip the drop cloth off my desk; the edge of the bedsheet catches a tin can full of pencils and pens and sends it spinning, scattering the writing implements everywhere. I bundle the drop cloth into a tight little knot and hurl it at paint still drying on the wall; it thumps gently off, leaving a tiny, barely noticeable smear.
My door swings open. It’s my father.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
It feels like my chest is on fire, and I flinch away from him without thinking, not able to answer civilly or really even at all. “Nothing’s going on, sir,” I choke out.
He swallows hard and says, “Right, okay. I’ll knock next time.” He closes the door.
I clench and unclench my fists, feeling utterly alone. I want to help Glenys—save her—get her out from wherever they’ve sent her. I close my eyes, trying to think. Would her siblings know anything? Nicholas, the next oldest, is fourteen and has his own phone. But he likes being the oldest boy and bossing Glenys around, and he never liked me. The one who likes me the best is Kimberlyn, who’s eleven and doesn’t have a phone. I could write her a letter, but it’s the six-year-old’s job to walk down and get the mail, and there’s no chance she’ll just discreetly give the letter to Kimber, she’ll announce to the whole house that Kimber has a letter. This isn’t any use.
My grandmother doesn’t talk to people in “the cult,” which is what she calls the Remnant. And no one’s written to me, or texted, or called. Which could just be because the Elder’s been increasingly insistent that the Tribulation is right around the corner …
The Elder.
For the last year or so, I’ve viewed the Catacombs mostly as a way to chat with Glenys. But high-level users have access to the Elder—they can ask questions. And the Elder knows everything. Truly. It’s why my mother and I joined the Abiding Remnant—because the Elder was clearly a real prophet.
Will he tell me where Glenys is? Or for that matter, where my mother is?
To find out, I’m going to need to actually do the Catacombs missions.
And I’ll ask Steph. She seems very worldly. Maybe she’ll have a better idea.
7• Steph •
Last fall, after CheshireCat ran my father over with a driverless car, their creator took them offline. I got a mysterious email with their creator’s address in Boston. After the confrontation where my father showed up and CheshireCat sent an army of hijacked robots to save us, Annette told me that she still didn’t entirely trust CheshireCat and gave me a phone number for a burner phone she carries, with no data connection, so that if CheshireCat did anything that worried me, I could call her.
I’m not worried about CheshireCat. I’ve never worried about CheshireCat. But I have no idea what to think about this other AI.
I also have a burner phone. It’s a flip phone with no data connection left over from my days on the run, when Mom wanted me to have a way to call her, but didn’t want me to accidentally give away our location. It’s in one of my desk drawers, zipped inside a pencil case. I could call Annette right now … but I’m not even sure what I’d say. My hunch that I shared with CheshireCat, that the other AI is running the Invisible Castle, seems pretty tenuous. “And maybe also the Catacombs” seems even more far-fetched. That’s just based on Nell’s offhand comment that the two sites looked similar.
CheshireCat seems uncertain about the Mischief Elves. “Do you feel comfortable participating?” they ask. “I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“It seems harmless. Mostly harmless? I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t mind sticking around to see if I’m
