S C H O L A S T I C I N C .

/ N E W YO R K
​Copyright © 2024 Ben Oliver

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Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data available

ISBN 978-1-338-891850

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 24 25 26 27 28

Printed in the U.S.A. 37

First edition, April 2024

Book design by Cassy Price

Stock photos © Shutterstock.com

 01
CHAP TER

Emerson Ness had not been scared in a very long time. Now she
was terrified.
The room was gray, not only in color but in character too: per-
fectly square, perfectly dull. No win­dows. The only light came
from two fluo­rescent headache bulbs that flickered overhead.
The t­ able was off-­center in a very purposeful way.
Emerson sat at that t­ able, trying not to think.
They want you to think, she told herself, they want you to replay
the events over and over ­until y­ ou’re not sure what happened and
what ­didn’t happen. That’s why every­thing is so gray and dull; so
that ­you’ve got nothing to focus on other than your thoughts.
She tried then to clear her mind, but it was impossible. She
was shaking. She saw it in her hands as she ­nervously pulled
at her fingertips, and then noticed a thrumming throughout
her entire body. Stop that, she commanded herself, but no
amount of trying would slow down the tremor that ran
through her like a current, and as she stared at her earthquake
hands, her mind drifted back to the reason she was in this
room. She saw the flames eating up the building. She heard the

1
sirens wailing into the night, smelling that burned-hair smell.
No! she told herself. Think of something ­else. Y ­ ou’re scared,
that’s all.
Arson was a serious crime—­especially when it was a school
that burned down. The government did not take kindly to
people who destroyed their property. Cost the government
­
money and you ­were looking at jail time.
She knew it ­didn’t look good. She had been caught on the
school grounds late at night, clutching a bag full of money,
the building burning at her back.
When was the last time you ­were this scared?
She scoured her mind, moving back through her sixteen years
of life, trying to remember when she had last been truly terrified.
It had been nine years ago, when she was seven and her b­ rother,
Kester, had been an infant. Their ­mother had been dead only a
few months, and their ­father had gone off to “make content,”
spending the night in the catacombs with nothing but a cheap
camera drone and a thin blanket. Every­thing that man did was
for views and followers. Maybe he was right. Maybe it r­ eally
was the only currency that mattered anymore.
While he’d been away, Kester had gotten sick. ­Really sick. At
first his breathing had been a l­ittle ragged, a l­ittle wheezy, but
then it started to rattle. Sounds like he’s got rocks in his breath, she
had thought as she stood at her l­ ittle b­ rother’s door, holding her
own breath and trying not to cry. He had started coughing then,
coughing and coughing, and ­after a while, it sounded like he was
drowning.

2
 Emerson had tried to call their dad, but ­there was no signal in
the catacombs. She had gotten angry, smashing the ancient cell
phone on the kitchen floor and then punching the door so hard
her knuckles bled. Then she had started to panic, ­running out of
the baby’s bedroom, pressing her hands against her ears, and then
­running back in, willing him to miraculously get better. “Stop it
now, Kester! Stop that!” But he ­didn’t get better. He got worse.
She had leaned over his cot and yelled at her tiny ­brother.
“Please stop! Please!”
Fi­nally, she had gotten ahold of herself and called an ambu-
lance. The paramedics had agreed to meet her, but they refused
to drive down into the Burrows, so ­she’d had to wrap up her dis-
tressed ­brother and run to the entrance of the tunnel.
Kester had an infection in his lungs that had turned into
pneumonia. The doctors saved his life. Thirty hours l­ ater—­when
she had returned home carry­ing her baby ­brother in her arms—­
their ­father had been sitting at his computer editing the footage
of his night in the catacombs, oblivious. She had hated him in
that moment. She had never forgiven him.
That same kind of fear was in her again now, ­here in this inter-
rogation room where—­any second now—an officer, maybe two,
would enter and tell her that she was looking at prison. A build-
ing had burned to the ground, and $900 of physical cash had
been stolen. Physical money was not as valuable as brand credits,
but theft was theft.
She i­magined slowing time right down ­until seconds lasted
minutes and hours lasted days. Then she ­imagined time ­running

3
 backward: the door to the interrogation room opening, the
police uncuffing her and marching her backward into the wagon,
the mug shot drone erasing photo­graphs of her. And then she
thought, If I could go back in time, why not just keep g­ oing? And
so, in her mind, days rushed by, fading from dark to light, the
moon reversing across the sky, chased closely by the sun, years
and years, faster and faster, before Kester was born, ­until, fi­nally,
time began to move forward again at regular speed, and Emerson
was six years old, and her ­mother was still alive.
“Em,” her ­mother said, holding out an ethereal hand.
Emerson reached out for that hand, and had almost touched it
when she was snatched from her reverie by the interrogation
room door opening. Two officers came in and sat down in the
bigger, more comfortable chairs opposite her. ­There w ­ ere no
introductions, no greetings, not even a moment of eye contact.
The short, female officer spoke first.
“It is currently 2:41 in the morning on December twelfth.
Special Agent Dern interviewing suspect alongside Officer
Bannon. Let me get some information clear for the report: Your
first name, Emerson, is spelled E-­M-­E-­R-­S-­O-­N?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Emerson said, and cleared her throat
­after hearing the vibration in her voice. She reminded herself to
be tough. ­You’ve done nothing wrong, remember that. Yes, you
stole money, but it was only to feed your ­family. It’s not your fault
that the building burned.
“And last name, Ness, spelled N-­E-­S-­S?”
“Yes,” Emerson replied.

4
 “And address is 2331/19 The Burrows?”
This list of meaningless questions sparked anger in Emerson.
“This is dumb, I ­shouldn’t be ­here, I—”
“In a minute,” the officer said, holding up a hand, still not
making eye contact. Emerson clenched her jaw, irritated that she
had been shut down so effectively. “I know y­ ou’ve already been
read your rights, Ms. Ness, but I’m g­ oing to repeat them now so
that they are on rec­ord: You have the right to remain ­silent.
Anything you say can and ­will be used against you in a court of
law. You have the right to an attorney, which you can pay for in
brand credits or cash, and if you cannot afford one, one w ­ ill be
provided for you. Do you understand what I have told you?”
Emerson had been in situations like this before many times,
and had learned that she could push aside almost all other emo-
tions if she filled herself up with anger. She did this now. “Yeah,
I’m not stupid.”
“Do you want a ­lawyer?”
“­Don’t need one. I h­ aven’t done anything.”
“For the rec­ord, the suspect has chosen, of her own ­free ­will,
to waive her right to a ­lawyer.” The officer fi­nally made eye con-
tact, and all Emerson could see in ­those eyes was ambition. “You
­were arrested outside Stone’s Throw High School shortly ­after
midnight this morning, is that correct?”
“Does this one speak?” Emerson asked, pointing at the tall,
square-­faced officer sitting next to Agent Dern.
“Answer the question, please.”
“I was arrested, but I still d­ on’t know why.”

5
 “You ­were apprehended outside a burning school with a bag
full of stolen money. Why do you think you ­were arrested?”
“Sarcasm?” Emerson replied. “­Really? Is this how the police
conduct their business ­these days?”
“­You’re impulsive, a­ren’t you, Ms. Ness? You ­don’t think
before you speak, and you d­ on’t think before you act. So, for
­those reasons, I’ll spell out to you exactly what you are being
charged with. You are u­ nder arrest on suspicion of theft, and
arson.” She paused. “And manslaughter.”
Emerson slowly sat up in her uncomfortable gray chair and
stared at Agent Dern. “What did you say?”
“Manslaughter, Ms. Ness. It means—in this case—­that you
committed unintentional hom­i­cide in a criminally negligent
manner.”
Her anger dissolved away, like ink in ­water. “Someone . . . ​
someone died?”
Agent Dern looked at her watch. “About twelve minutes ago.
A man named Marvin Tzu, a janitor. He died from injuries sus-
tained at the scene. Burns, smoke inhalation.”
Agent Dern took a photo­graph of a man in his sixties out of
a manila envelope and placed it on the t­able between them.
Emerson stared at the man; his eyes, sad and soulful, seemed to
gaze right back at her. She recognized t­ hose eyes. She felt her
heart twisting in her chest like a bag full of rodents. Suddenly,
it was hard to breathe; her vision blurred and then came into
focus almost too sharp. “I . . . ​I changed my mind. I do want a
­lawyer.”

6
 “That’s entirely your choice, Ms. Ness,” Agent Dern said, clos-
ing the case file that had sat in front of her and standing up.
Officer Bannon stood up almost at the same time. “Interview
paused at 0245 hours.”
They exited the room without so much as a glance back, leav-
ing the photo­graph of Marvin Tzu on the ­table.
The silence that followed seemed to fall down from the ceil-
ing like dust, and in that silence, Emerson felt like she ­couldn’t
catch her breath. Her feet felt numb, and her thoughts w ­ ere
tumbling in her mind. She was sure that she could feel the
earth spiraling though space. She gripped the underside of her
chair. She had to hold on to something or be cast into the infi-
nite void.
Dead, she thought. Someone died. Someone died. ­They’re dead.
The confidence and determination of Agent Dern had scared
her at first. Now it terrified her.
Emerson took one last look at the photo­graph on the ­table,
and then turned it over.
She had a criminal rec­ord already—­that meant it would be
all too easy to pin this on her. And when they did, she would
spend the next two ­decades in a room even more dull and gray
than this one.
I c­an’t let that happen, Emerson told herself. I ­can’t. Kester
needs me, I ­can’t leave him alone. Get a grip, Em, you need to think.
Get ahold of yourself.
But she ­couldn’t seem to access her thoughts. All she could see
in her mind’s eye was the flashing of the mug shot drones that

7
had circled her at the scene of the crime, taking photos as the
school burned ­behind her, the flames reaching their skinny fin­
gers up into the black sky.

✕✖✕

The door to the interrogation room opened again ­after what

felt to Emerson like hours. Though perhaps it had only been
minutes. A short man with white hair and small round glasses
entered.
“Are you my ­lawyer?” Emerson asked, no longer able to
hide the fear in her voice.
The man ignored her question. Instead, he ambled over to the
­table, sat down on the chair that Agent Dern had vacated,
and took a virtual ­notepad out of his pocket. He placed it on
the ­table, glanced at Emerson over the tops of his glasses, then
used his fingerprint to open the virtual stack of documents that
hovered in the air between them.
“What is this?” Emerson asked.
“Emerson Ness,” the old man said, and smiled warmly. “You
might be the luckiest girl alive right now.”
Emerson’s brow furrowed as she looked at the newcomer.
“Look around, old man. Do I look lucky to you?”
The man laughed, a hearty and friendly sound. “No, no. You
certainly do not. But, rest assured, you are.”
“­You’re g­ oing to explain?” Emerson asked, and felt the tiniest
flicker of hope inside herself. She extinguished it quickly, though.
Experience had taught her to never get her hopes up.

8
 “Explain I ­shall,” the man said, smiling that charming, kindly
smile. And Emerson felt herself warming to the man in spite of
herself. “­You’re lucky, Ms. Ness, ­because I came along just at the
right time! You see, I’m your ticket out of all this mess.”
“My ticket . . . ​I’m sorry, what’s g­ oing on?”
He laughed again and then leaned back in his chair. “Forgive
me, Ms. Ness. I’m being cryptic. I ­don’t mean to be. Let me try to
be more clear. I’m a producer, which means I’m in charge of
bringing together a team of ­people to create a ­television show.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Ness, but y­ ou’re looking down
the barrel of at least fifteen years in maximum security. Slate
County. ­They’re ­going to try you as an adult, understand? Even
though ­you’re sixteen, ­they’re ­going to try you as an adult b­ ecause
­you’ve got a criminal history, including aggravated assault and
forgery.”
“I can explain all that,” Emerson tried. ­She’d done it for her
­brother, she wanted to say. She ­hadn’t had a choice.
“­You’re ­going to explain it to a jury?” He raised a white
eyebrow.
“I . . . ​I . . .”
“­Doesn’t ­matter,” the man said, waving a hand. “­You’re not
setting foot in a courtroom, and—if you win the competition—­
you’re not setting foot in a prison. You ­won’t have to worry about
any of that once you sign this contract.”
“Competition?” Emerson asked.
“Listen,” the Producer said, leaning in close and gesturing to
the dim room. “All of this, this crap, this is how they keep p­ eople

9
like you down. ­You’re a young, intelligent girl with all the poten-
tial in the world, and yet y­ ou’re fighting for your life e­ very day.
How is that fair? Can I tell you a secret? I hate this system. I’m
from the same place as you, Ms. Ness. I’m from the Burrows and
I had to use ­every ounce of strength to get out. I want to offer you
a chance to get out too.”
Emerson looked at the digital contract that hung between
them. “What is it?” she asked. “What does it say?”
The Producer laughed and raised both hands out to his sides
in a gesture of evangelical praise. “It says ­you’re ­going walk out of
this station and wave to ­those arrogant cops on the way, that’s
what it says. Did you see that Agent Dern? She wants you. She
wants to see you burn. She knows y­ ou’ve got no defense, Ms.
Ness. No brand value to pay for a l­ awyer. I could see it in her eyes.
Be honest, what are your credits worth? How many followers do
you have? ­Under a thousand, I’d wager?”
Somehow, Emerson knew that the Producer had looked into
her already. He knew that she had no followers at all, meaning
her digital brand credits ­were worth less than physical cash.
“What would I have to do?” Emerson asked.
“That’s the best part,” the Producer said, lacing his fin­gers
­behind his head as if they ­were both relaxing on a summer’s day.
“All you have to do is be yourself. Be likable. Watch your follower
count grow by the millions and your currency become valuable
beyond your wildest dreams.”
Emerson sat back in her chair and looked from the Producer’s
smiling eyes to the floating stack of papers between them. “­You’re

10
g­ oing to have to give me more than that,” Emerson said. “I ­don’t
understand what’s ­going on ­here.”
The Producer sighed and sat forward. “Emerson, we d­ on’t
have time to go into the details. I wish we did, but the chief
of this place has given me exactly five minutes. Suffice it to say
that this is a one in a billion opportunity. You happen to be a
prime candidate for a new show with a very real prize. That prize
is freedom. If you ­don’t sign on the dotted line in the time I’ve
allotted myself to meet with you, that opportunity w ­ ill go to
someone ­else. Listen to me, girl. You ­were born to fail. It’s not
your fault, it’s just the facts as I see them. I’m offering you an
opportunity to change the narrative of your life.”
Emerson swallowed. “What is the show about?”
“­You’re still asking questions? ­Really? I’m offering you a cure
for cancer and ­you’re asking me what flavor the pill is?”
Emerson looked into the fatherly eyes of this strange man who
had burst into her life at her most vulnerable. “­There has to be a
catch,” she replied. “Nobody gets to walk away for f­ ree.”
The Producer nodded slowly. “­You’re smart, Emerson Ness.
Too smart to be in a place like this. The show goes like this: Fifty
young p­ eople on the verge of imprisonment w ­ ill take part in vari­
ous games. The difficulty of ­these games is determined by how
many followers you earn throughout the show. If you lose a game,
you ­will face a public vote against whoever has the least amount
of followers. The person voted off is incarcerated in a maximum-­
security prison with no contact from the outside world, and no
contact from other prisoners. The sentence is automatically life

11
in solitary. The one person with the most followers at the end is
­free to go, and not just ­free to go, but ­free to go with hundreds
of thousands of new followers, advertising endorsements, and
popularity that ­will set them up for life.”
Emerson’s head was spinning. This had come out of nowhere.
One minute she had been mentally preparing herself for a ­decade
or more in Slate County, and now this man with his compassion-
ate face and caring words came along offering her . . . ​what?
“The clock is ticking, Ms. Ness,” the Producer said, his voice
quiet and understanding.
Emerson tried to p­ rocess every­thing he had said. It w ­ asn’t
freedom he was offering but a one-­in-­fifty chance of freedom.
The price she had to pay was to be paraded on screens across the
world as entertainment.
She was aware of the seconds ticking away as she considered
the Producer’s offer. Fi­nally, she came to a decision.
“No,” she said.
The smile on the Producer’s face melted away like spring ice.
“No?” he repeated.
“That’s right, I said no.”
“I . . .” He laughed. “I ­wasn’t expecting that. Can I ask why?”
“Your show, ­whatever it’s called, is disgusting. It’s exploiting
­people. ­You’re using ­people’s darkest moments as entertainment.
­You’re using p­ eople’s desperation to amuse o­ thers, and I . . . ​I
­can’t be part of that.” She lifted her chin. “Besides, if I ­don’t
win—­which is likely—­I’ll be exchanging fifteen years in prison
for life in prison. That’s no prize.”

12
 The Producer kept his expression of amusement. “­We’re offer-
ing p­ eople an opportunity.”
“Then offer it,” Emerson interrupted. “­Don’t dangle it in front
of ­people’s ­faces and make them dance for it.”
He laughed, sat back in his seat, ran his hands through his
hair, and laughed again. He swiped his hands over the docu-
ments, and they dis­appeared. “Well, I’m not ­going to beg you,
Emerson. I re­spect your decision, but this is an opportunity
that thousands of kids in your situation would bite my hand off
for. If you ­don’t want it, someone ­else ­will.” He stood up and
pocketed the virtual notebook. “Your f­ather ­will be disap-
pointed, though.”
Emerson sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Huh?” the Producer said, and turned back around to face
Emerson. “Oh, just that we need consent from a parent or guard-
ian in order to validate your involvement in the show. Your ­father
gave us that signature less than an hour ago. He seemed very
happy to give his permission.”
“You’re lying,” Emerson said. Her dad was a mediocre parent
at best, sure, but she ­couldn’t believe he’d go so far as to practi-
cally consign his only ­daughter to life in prison.
The Producer put the virtual notebook back on the t­ able and
scanned it. The documents reappeared between them, and the
Producer pulled out the final sheet. Her f­ather’s name, Markus
Ness, was scrawled across the bottom.
“He cares about you,” the Producer said. “He wants to give
you a chance to walk ­free. That’s a good dad in my book.”

13
 Emerson traced each letter of her f­ ather’s name with her eyes,
feeling her stomach sink. “He d­ oesn’t care,” she said. “All he
wants is—”
But ­there was no time to finish her sentence. The door to the
interrogation room flew open and the two officers entered.
“All right,” Agent Dern said. “That’s time.”
All he wants is a famous d­ aughter so he can grow his own brand,
Emerson finished her thought. She pictured Kester in her mind.
Kester, who was more intelligent than both of them. Kester,
who was born deaf in a society that had given him next to no
support.
Emerson looked into the eyes of the Producer. How could
someone so benevolent make such a cruel offer?
“I c­ an’t do it,” Emerson told him. She felt a moment of dizzi-
ness, as though her entire f­ uture had just taken a step off a high
and sheer cliff.
“I’ll tell you what,” the Producer said. “I’ll post your bail.
You’ll be out of ­here tomorrow and I’ll give you one more day
­after that to decide. We can even add a clause stipulating that all
of your social media and credit accounts will be transferred to
your brother in the event that you are incarcerated.”
Emerson opened her mouth to tell him that she ­didn’t need
any more time, that her mind was made up, but the words
­wouldn’t come.
The Producer put a big, papery hand on her shoulder, offered
her one last smile, and then left her to be escorted to a holding
cell by Agent Dern and the s­ ilent Officer Bannon.

14
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