The sight of two officials in ceremonial purple greets me as I walk through the entryway of the residence. Enzo is nowhere to be seen. The minute the officials see me, the one on the left takes a step forward and says, “Malencia Vale?”

I try to keep the concern I feel off my face as I nod.

“Professor Holt asked that you report to her in the main common room once you arrived. She’ll be glad to know you are safe.”

While I am not sure Professor Holt will feel delight upon seeing me, I thank the official for his message. I then head in the direction of the common room, hoping I did not make the wrong decision when I chose to stay instead of run.

I walk down the hall to the large room that we use for residence gatherings, studying, and relaxing in between classes. Professor Holt is seated near the large stone fireplace. Her squared shoulders, her short cap of red hair, and the crimson color of her clothing give her an undeniable air of authority. Across the room, several upper-year students are standing in small groups. It only takes one of them noticing my approach for Professor Holt to turn toward me. Her almond-shaped eyes narrow behind her thickly framed glasses before she turns back to the students gathered nearby. A look from Professor Holt sends them hurrying out the door, leaving the two of us alone.

Forcing a smile, I say, “You asked to see me, Professor Holt?”

I stand motionless while Professor Holt studies me. My heart hammers as I think of Enzo’s words, the lie he swore he told, and the gray paper in my bag. In my mind I picture Professor Holt’s name written in firm black letters beneath that of Dr. Barnes. Would she understand the purpose of the list if for some reason she asked to see the contents of my bag? And what would she say if she saw the gun and the transmitters?

“Please, take a seat.” Professor Holt waves me into the faded armchair across from her.

I sit, wishing I could have found a plausible reason to stand, since I had the advantage of height and the ability to run. Sitting with my bag on my lap, I am very aware of being at the mercy of Professor Holt and the University if the answers I give are not correct.

Professor Holt leans back in her chair and asks, “Have you been experiencing any problems in your classes or with your internship?”

The subject matter catches me off-guard. I blink twice and consider her seemingly innocuous words. After being assigned to the Government studies program, my fellow students and I were given class schedules. I was assigned nine classes—the most of any first-year student. Failure to keep up with the course load is monitored closely. Some students who struggled have already been Redirected out of the University. According to my guide, Ian, I have been watched more carefully than my peers for signs of difficulty. There was something about me that Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt found troubling long before my untracked disappearance from campus this morning. Something that goes back to The Testing. Even with my returned memories, I have not been able to puzzle out what that something is. And not now, with Professor Holt staring at me, waiting for an answer.

My admitting my workload is difficult could give her an opening to doubt my abilities as a student, but saying I am managing my schedule with ease is a lie. One she will certainly call me on. Without understanding her agenda, I carefully say, “It’s a challenge to keep up with all of the work, but I’m determined to succeed.”

“I’m sure you are.” Professor Holt’s smile fades. “Damone Pyburn was determined as well, but he appears to have vanished from campus. He has not been seen since last night. When your friends could not find you, I was concerned you might have disappeared as well.”

Her eyes flick to the bracelet on my wrist. A sure sign that my whereabouts were never in doubt. I wonder if Damone’s bracelet is currently able to be tracked and if Professor Holt knows he is at the bottom of the chasm that surrounds this building. Or does the tear in the earth go too deep for her and Dr. Barnes to trace with a short-range transmitter?

Giving her an embarrassed smile, I say, “I apologize if I caused anyone to worry. I had some questions about a project I’m working on and decided to go to the president’s office to get some answers.”

If Professor Holt looks for the lie in my words she won’t find one.

Nodding, she says, “I appreciate your dedication to your studies, as I’m sure the president does. And, of course, you left before I requested that students remain in the residence so that I could discuss Damone’s unusual disappearance with all of you individually. So, you had no way of knowing that you went against my explicit instructions.”

“I would never have left had I known I was instructed to stay on campus.”

Her lips purse. “Well, now that you’re back, perhaps you can tell me whether you had cause to speak with or spend time with Damone Pyburn before he went missing.”

I consider my words carefully as I say, “Despite our being on the same team during Induction, I don’t know Damone very well. He made it clear that he wasn’t interested in being friends with colony students, so we rarely if ever spoke.”

“And yet you saved his life—twice.”

Only to end it later.

I stifle the urge to shift in my seat and say, “It was the right thing to do for my team.”

“And you always do the right thing.”

“No,” I answer honestly. “Growing up, I was taught that it’s impossible to know what the right thing always is. The best you can do is to try to do what you think is right for yourself and the people around you.”