“Yes,” I say decisively. “That’s my theory.”

Megan’s quiet for a few moments, considering. She squints her eyes at the ceiling and bites her pinkie nail. Then finally, she speaks: “I guess it could work.”

“You’re totally annoying,” I say.

“But you love me.”

“I do.”

“What should we do now?” Megan asks. “I mean, if your theory is true and God’s killing anyone who knows about the project…”

I suck in my breath so hard I think my lungs might explode. It makes Megan jump.

“What?” she asks, wide-eyed.

“Do you think Matt could be in danger?” I say, realizing what I might have done to the guy I like.

“No,” Megan says reflexively to reassure me. But the concerned look on her face tells me otherwise. “And the difference is that if this is true, Nora was threatening to out the program. No one knows that Matt knows, and he won’t tell anyone.” She pauses. “Right?”

“No,” I say uneasily. “At least I thought he wouldn’t.”

“He won’t,” Megan says quietly, as if she knows him. “You have good instincts with people. I’m sure you can still trust him, even if he’s being a child right now.”

“I hope so,” I say, worried anyway. “But oh my god, what about Nora? If it’s true, seeing me in that mall ruined her life.”

“You can’t take all the credit,” Megan says. “People make their own decisions. Maybe she saw you. But she could have minded her own business and stayed right there in Michigan. And besides, I’m not even one hundred percent convinced.”

“Look up Nora Fitzgerald on Facebook,” I command, fed up with the back-and-forth. Megan crawls off the bed and searches for Nora.

“No account,” she reports. “But maybe she’s one of those dorks who’s taking a stand against social networks. We should totally blog about that, by the way.”

“She’s not,” I say. “But just in case, search for Gina Geiger. She’s Nora’s best friend.”

“Okay, here’s Gina,” Megan says. “Whoa, check out that red lipstick. Is she a tranny?”

“Focus,” I say. “Look through her friend list.”

“Love to, but I can’t without friending her. Want me to?”

“No, let’s figure it out another way.”

“Should I go back to the original plan of friending Nora directly?” Megan asks.

“Shh,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m thinking.”

The room is still for a few moments.

“Just Google Nora Fitzgerald and see if anything comes up,” I say as a last resort. I listen to Megan’s nails clicking against the keys.

“Here’s something,” she says, clicking on a link. I climb off the bed and walk up behind Megan as the page is loading. I realize that we’re looking at the Frozen Hills newspaper, then scan the rest of the page. Megan and I both gasp when we see the headline:

LOCAL TEEN KILLED IN DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT

“I guess you were right,” Megan says quietly.

“Guess so.”

twenty-seven

An unwilling night owl, I’m not asleep when I hear a knock on the front door at five AM. I wonder whether Alicia’s expecting someone as I listen to her shuffle through the condo to answer. There’s whispered conversation, and I’m surprised to realize that one of the low voices is Mason’s. Footsteps approach and the door to Megan’s room cracks open, spilling in a stream of light.

“Daisy?” Alicia whispers. “Mason’s here to see you.”

“Okay,” I whisper before crawling over the sleeping Megan. I tiptoe across the carpet and close her door behind me. When I’ve joined Mason, Alicia leaves us alone. I’m light sensitive and squinting, with my arms over my chest and my hands in my armpits because I’m not wearing a bra.

“I’m going to take you back to Omaha,” Mason says softly. “Cassie’s going to finish up here. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Audrey’s in a coma. It’s likely that she’ll die very soon.”

My jaw drops. I blink. I blink again.

How can he tell me this when I’m still wearing pajamas?

I’m not sure why I expected a filter from him. He deals in death: It’s clinical, not personal. I’m not sure why I expected more of a warning from Audrey. I’m not sure why I expected anything at all. This is how people with no access to Revive end their lives: inconveniently and with no buffer.

They go into comas.

And die.

twenty-eight

I’m so concerned about Audrey—playing a loop of the last few times we saw each other in my head—that I’m barely even aware of the flight home. When we land, we get our luggage and find the car, then head straight to the hospital from the airport. But even as we’re driving there, Mason tries to talk me out of going.

“Daisy, I brought you back so you could say goodbye to your friend, but I’d like you to consider something.”

I don’t speak, so he goes on.

“You don’t have to go to the hospital. Audrey would understand.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice hoarse because I haven’t spoken for so long.

“I thought a lot about this on the plane,” Mason says. “People flock to deathbeds because they think that it’ll be better for them to say goodbye, to hold their loved one’s hand. But Daisy, sometimes it isn’t better. That image of them dying sticks with you. But still, people do it. And I’m happy to take you there if you want to go. I’m just saying that it’s okay if you want to hold on to the image of Audrey smiling and laughing and remember her that way. Because she’s not laughing right now. She’s not awake. She’s barely alive. A machine is breathing for her. Do you understand?”

I don’t speak right away. I think of Audrey in the hallway at school that day, of the perfect picture of her. Fleetingly, I consider what Mason is saying. But skipping the hard times just so I can remember the good doesn’t sound like the right thing to do. In fact, I’m not even sure Mason believes his own advice.

“I’m going,” I say flatly.

“I’m not sure that’s the right decision.”

“But it’s my decision, right?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Then I’m going.”

Walking under the arch leading into the hospital, I have knots in my stomach. I’m surprised that I’m actually afraid to see Audrey, like the permanence of her impending death might be catching or something. But I know in my heart that I need to be here.

We walk through the doors and across the vast lobby. With its muted colors and three-story wall of windows, the light, bright hospital seems to be telling me to feel hopeful. But I don’t.

We make our way to the ICU waiting room. There are tables arranged like a lounge, chairs near a TV, and couches along several of the walls. All of the furniture is either an unrecognizable shade of nothing blue—like that background color that comes standard as computer wallpaper—or something between peach and salmon. The room is bigger than our basement, but there are only five people inside: the McKeans—minus Audrey—Mason, and me.