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  “Did she respond—” Ryan starts, but then my phone chimes. I look back at my screen.

  RECLAIM THE SUN: CHAT APPLICATION

  D1V: Whenever someone asks me this, I want to set them on fire, so do excuse how this sounds.

  D1V: But can you send me a photo of yourself right now?

  D1V: A series of them, so I know you didn’t just grab one off a friend’s Facebook or something.

  D1V: I legit hate myself for this so please don’t make fun of me.

  A picture of me? A series of them? I stare at the screen for a moment, until I feel Ryan peering over my shoulder.

  “Are you waiting for something?” he asks, pointing at the phone.

  “No, I—”

  The app beeps again.

  D1V: After the pizza place, those people following me. Coming after Rebekah.

  D1V: I need to see who you are. I need to know that you aren’t one of them.

  D1V: Even though I know you aren’t. It might not make sense to you, but that doesn’t matter.

  D1V: It’s not about you. It’s about me feeling safe.

  My heart quickens, and my stomach twists itself up. Not for a second had I considered D1V might feel...unsafe, chatting and gaming with me. That never registered in my brain, not for a minute. When I think about myself, I envision the most unthreatening person imaginable...but that’s me. That’s my perception. And now that I know this is what she’s feeling, I want to help change that as quickly as possible.

  I immediately flip to my phone’s camera and take a few selfies. It’s the first time I’ve ever taken photos for someone with no regard to how I look in the picture. This morning was rushed, as I was hurrying out the door to hustle across town, so my wavy black hair is a mess and there’s some stubble peeking through on my cheeks. The hair in between my eyebrows—which are technically just a single solid eyebrow that I meticulously try to maintain as two—is starting to grow back. Also I’m pretty sure I wore this T-shirt yesterday.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “I could take those for you, you know,” Ryan offers.

  “Better yet...” I hold the phone farther away from me, getting Ryan in the shot and switching to video.

  “Hey, D1V!” I exclaim, awkwardly waving. “This is Ryan, one of the guys I make video games with. He also doubles as my best friend.”

  “Hi,” Ryan says. “Those guys were assholes. I hope you feel... I don’t know, better? Safer? Safe. That’s what’s important here.” He sends me an exasperated look. “You could have given me time to prepare something, dude.” He turns back to the camera. “Please don’t put this on your channel or whatever it is. I’m not a YouTube person.”

  “It’s not YouTu—” I start to say, then stop, shaking my head ruefully. “Never mind. Not important. Let’s game later!” I say, ending the recording with a smile.

  “That was...oddly sweet,” Ryan comments. “I better not end up in a stream, though. I’m not into all that social media stuff.”

  “We’re not interesting enough, anyway,” I say with a shrug. “And you should watch those gaming streams. It’s who you’re illustrating for, who we make games for.”

  I send the photos to D1V through the game’s chat app and start uploading the video to her just as someone drags a couple more chairs over to our table.

  Laura has arrived.

  “Welcome to my home turf,” she says, grinning. She gestures around the coffee shop, as though we’re being given a rare glimpse inside a sprawling kingdom, then frowns at our lack of enthusiasm. “Hey, this place is magic, okay? This table? It’s repurposed from a bowling alley.”

  “This tea tastes like it was repurposed from a bowling ball,” Ryan says, smirking.

  Laura glares at him.

  “Fine, it’s delicious,” Ryan admits, taking a sip of the strong tea in question.

  “Damn right it is. You guys good?” She eyes our cups.

  “All full,” Ryan says, holding his cup up. “No worries.”

  Laura unloads her backpack and places her incredibly large laptop on the dark wood table with a thunk. The base of the thing is as thick as four laptops stacked together—or, to be more specific, about the size of a laptop circa 1999. I’d found one like that in the trash near a neighbor’s house once back in junior high, and the best it could do was run Windows 95. It’s still under my bed, packed full of Super Nintendo ROMs and other downloaded emulators for video game consoles long since retired.

  I bet the old desktop in the practice could run some ROMs. I wonder if that’s what my dad has been playing.

  I catch Ryan smirking at it, the machine we all affectionally refer to as The Butcher’s Block.

  “Don’t start,” Laura says, pointing at me and Ryan, scowling. “I don’t mock the pretentious Moleskine notebooks you use for all your doodles, so stop making fun of the tools of my trade. I like having the laptop dock attached. It feels powerful.”

  Ryan’s forehead wrinkles up. “Last time we hung out you made fun of my notebook!”

  “Okay, fine, I do it all the time,” Laura admits, grinning. “But that’s only because I love you.” She walks off toward the counter and the line weaving up to it.

  “I wonder where Jason is,” I muse, turning to Ryan. “Feels like he and Laura are attached at the hip these days.”

  “Dude,” Ryan says, “you need to stop obsessing over this.”

  “I’m not obsessing over it. I’m just stating a fact!” I protest. “And for the record, again, I’m not into Laura. I’m just worried about her with Jason.”

  “Oh no, I can tell, because of how smitten you are with the YouTuber.”

  “That’s not what she does—”

  “Not denying the feelings, I see?”

  “Oh my God, would you stop—”

  “And for the record, again, it’s not your place to interject yourself into her relationship,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’re not Mario, and Jason isn’t Bowser. She’s not a princess who needs or wants your saving.”

  “I get it,” I grumble. “I’m trying.”

  “How’d you get out of doctor training today, anyway?” Ryan asks, settling on one notebook and placing the rest in his bag. “I didn’t think we were gonna see you today.”

  “You know, it was weird,” I start, thinking back to this morning. “My dad was a total mess, in the office, hiding something on the computer.”

  “Porn?” Ryan grins.

  “Gross, bro.” I wince. “No, some kind of game, I think? The screen was frozen the other day on this old game and... Oh!” It hits me—the photos I took. “I took a picture. Hold on.” I flip through my photos, and there it is, all grainy with lines running through it and off-color from taking a picture of a screen, but clear enough. “What do you think?”

  Ryan squints at the screen, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “Your dad is playing that?” he asks as I pull the phone back.

  “Maybe?” I shrug. “I couldn’t tell if that’s what he was doing this morning. Why, what is it?”

  “I think it’s one of the Ultima games?” He glances back at my phone before the screen shuts off. “It’s an old RPG adventure game. There was even an online version.”

  “Huh.” I shake my head. “I just can’t imagine why he’d hide that.”

  “Maybe you should ask him?” Ryan shrugs. “That tends to be the way to solve mysteries the quickest, you know.”

  I nudge against his shoulder.

  “You have your illustrations with you?” I flick my hand at his sketchbook.

  “Yes, but I already know how you feel about my illustrations.”

  “That they are as brilliant and flawless as the creator?” I ask.

  “You are correct in your assessment.” He smiles, opening the sketchbook. He flips toward the end, and as each page f
lickers by, the interior goes from sketches in shades of grey pencil, or hard pen-and-ink-style drawings, to stunning full-color illustrations. He settles on one close to the end of the sketchbook, and I can’t stop myself from smiling.

  I know those characters.

  The Mage. The Rogue. The Elf. Characters from the story I’ve been writing for ManaPunk, for Jason’s first venture into role-playing games. Our first venture. The three of them are standing on the precipice of a cliff, overlooking a lush green valley. The Mage’s cape is billowing in the wind, a staff in hand, a purple glow bursting from an orb on top. The Rogue and the Elf are there next to the Mage, the Rogue’s arms crossed, the Elf with hands on hips. You can’t see their faces, but I can see them in my mind. Strong. Triumphant. Completely sure of what they want and how they are going to get it.

  A vision ahead of them. An adventure. A mission. A goal.

  I know you’re not supposed to project wish fulfillment for yourself into your own writing. Every piece of writing advice I’ve ever read has hammered that home. But sometimes I can’t help but see myself in these fantasy characters—that is, the way I wish I was. The way they approach their life in the game, with more certainty and fewer questions. It’s how I want to tackle things. With that steadfast sureness.

  I think these characters would demand their paychecks.

  Sigh.

  They kinda look like the characters I saw on the frozen screen in the office. And for a minute, I’m wondering if me and my dad have something real in common. It’s not like we’re wildly different or something, one of those estranged father-son relationships where all the communication happens over the course of a few head nods and handshakes. We talk all the time—about school, home, whatever nonsense we’re both watching on Netflix together.

  But this. This is something we’ve never talked about, for some odd reason. And I can’t quite figure out why that would be. We’d stopped talking about video games and playing them together when I was younger, so the idea that he’s still at it surprises me—and leaves me feeling a little sad.

  Laura makes her way back over to the table, two cups of coffee in her hand, just as Jason bounds through the café entrance, pure energy and smiles. He waves to a few people, who he probably doesn’t even know, and makes his way over to us. He pulls out a seat next to Laura and kisses her on the cheek a little too long, while Ryan kicks me under the table, a reminder to “stay out of it,” no doubt.

  Jason rubs his hands together.

  “Alright, you guys.” He nudges his chair closer to the table. “I have some news. I’ve entered Thundertail into the GamesCon Indie Game Showcase. They started accepting submissions just two days ago, and I presented some of the concept art and the basic story in the proposal last night. Had a great screen-share call with them.”

  Laura grabs Jason’s hand, smiling at him, and then gives us an equally excited smile.

  Ryan glances over at me, worry washing over his face.

  Screen-share? What could he even show them?

  “Jason, the game isn’t done yet,” Ryan says, his tone stern and concerned. “How can you submit an unfinished game to the showcase? What assets can you share with an unfinished game? Also, you haven’t paid for any of—”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Jason waves him off. “All we needed to show them were some bits and pieces of what we produced already, like the art, which you’ve been working on, and some loose concept of the story—that’s you, Aaron—and a tiny bit of gameplay.” He glances at Laura and then back at us. “The two of us have been coding all week and created some early concept dungeon-crawl levels.”

  “What!” I exclaim, trying to hold in the excitement washing over me, which is at war with the slight feeling of irritation at him showcasing our work this early without telling or paying us. “It...you... We can play our game?”

  “With my characters and designs?” Ryan asks, his tone still sharp.

  “Technically, yes.” Jason shrugs, grinning. “It’s just a very, very rough demo. The purpose of the showcase at the convention is to ideally get an investor. Someone who will jump on board, fund the game, and take a share of the profits. Maybe even a publisher bigger than...well, me. Someone bigger than ManaPunk.”

  “Oh,” I say, all that excitement fading away. “What happened to—”

  “Doing it ourselves? Being indie? Making it our own? Getting paid for our work?!” Ryan interrupts, glaring at Jason and closing his notebooks. “You want to go with a publisher, with a bigger company, who owns all this? Someone other than me who can put a trademark on my art, Jason? Other than us?” He points at his closed-up drawings, and I see worry flicker over Jason’s generally carefree face. “I didn’t sink days and weeks and months of my life into all of this only to have some asshole be able to make action figures or crappy Candy Crush–style games using my work down the line. Especially with no contract or paycheck on the horizon. Furthermore—”

  “That...that’s not what’s happening here, Ryan,” Jason says calmly. He glances at Laura.

  “Tell them,” she urges.

  “Tell us what?” Ryan demands.

  My phone chimes, and I flick it to vibrate, but not before seeing it’s another message from D1V, sent to me through the game’s chat app. A bit of tension seizes up in my chest as I reluctantly put the phone down on the table.

  Jason sighs.

  “Look, I know I’m late on your checks. I know. But the thing is, ManaPunk isn’t doing so hot,” he says hesitantly. “Mobile games...well, even when sales seem amazing—and they are pretty good—sometimes it’s only just enough to keep me afloat. Never mind the freelance publicist and marketing team we have on board to support the earlier games, or the tech support I source out to keep them updated every time the iOS or Android systems roll out another update. There are a lot of working gears in the machine that none of you have to deal with, and I’m running out of oil to keep them going smoothly.”

  “Running out of money,” Ryan says, and I can feel the glare in his voice. “That’s what you mean. Say it like it is. Money for us.”

  “Yeah...but...finding a publisher, that’s the best way to wriggle out of this.” Jason reaches out and puts his hand on one of Ryan’s notebooks, and Ryan grabs it, holding firm. There’s an awkward silence in the air between the two of them, as Ryan stares down Jason, and Jason continues to look at Ryan like he’s his only hope in all this. Like maybe the both of us are, at this point.

  And it strikes me that maybe he is. We are.

  Which is terrifying.

  I glance down at my phone. Three more messages. I bite my lip.

  “I’ll need to see contracts,” Ryan says firmly, breaking the silence. “Contracts that I’m going to run by my family and my father’s lawyer.”

  “Of course,” Jason says, the words escaping with a breath.

  “I need to know where my art is going, how it’s being used,” he presses. “Every single step of the way. The second you try to convince me to port it over to some match 3 game bullshit—”

  “Ryan, come on, man,” Jason says, his hand still on the notebook.

  “I know my worth,” Ryan says sternly. “You best know it, too.” He exhales and finally lets go of his notebook.

  Jason starts flipping through it and quickly reaches the end, the finished illustrations. Full color and glorious. I can practically see his eyes lighting up from across the table, a beaming smile on his face. He looks up at Ryan.

  “This,” he says, closing the notebook and shaking it at Ryan and me. “These finished illustrations. And with your story, Aaron? This is going to save me.” He clears his throat and quickly adds, “Save us.”

  I try not to smile too hard at this, hearing him say my story will save the company. I think that’s the first positive reaction I’ve had from him about it.

  “Contracts,” Ryan reminds him,
plucking the notebook out of Jason’s hands. “Or no art.”

  “You got it,” Jason says, smiling. “Now!” He slaps his hands on the table. “Let’s see those awful games and apps, and then we can start talking about next steps. I’m thinking posters and wallpapers and giveaways for the convention and on the website. My mind is just swimming with the possibilities.”

  “I love how you follow my demands to see no crappy games or action figures with proclamations of posters and giveaways.” Ryan scowls. “If I see a coaster or a beer cozy, I am coming for you.”

  My phone vibrates as the two of them start bickering again. I try not to look at it, but I can’t keep my eyes from darting down toward the screen.

  “Alright, Mr. Famous,” grumbles Jason, pointing at the phone. “I know you’re a big deal now, thanks to your guest appearance in that video.”

  It buzzes again, vibrating against the table. Eight messages. Eight little notifications taunting me as I glance down at the screen. It takes me a moment to realize Jason is talking about D1V’s stream, and that he actually watched it. Or at least, he read the email with me telling him about it. I’ll take whatever props I can.

  “To be fair, I did get ManaPunk a shout-out on that stream,” I say, looking down at the phone.

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t get you guys and those streaming videos, though.” He snorts. “Games are meant to be played. What’s the point of watching someone else play it, when you could actually play it yourself?”

  “Why watch football or basketball or golf when you could play those things?” Laura asks.

  “That’s not... No, that’s not the same thing,” Jason counters.

  “Kinda is.” Laura shrugs. “Just because you don’t get it, doesn’t mean there isn’t worth there. Same goes for not liking sports. People are allowed to like things.”

  “Point goes to Laura.” Ryan grins, snapping his fingers.

  “Hey, are we even going over story stuff today?” I ask, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can fully think them through. “’Cause if we aren’t, I can forfeit my turn with our app game and get going.”

  Jason glares at me and the phone, shaking his head in disgust.