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said, trying to sound polite.
“I’m sorry,” Michael blurted out. “I’m sorry—I’m just nervous. Sarah is one of my best
friends in the Sleep—I mean, in the VirtNet, and we’ve never met in the Wake before. I
wanted to surprise her with a visit, and instead I knocked on your door and made you
think I was a stalker. I’m sorry. Could you just tell her that Michael’s here? Mike the
Spike? Please?” He smiled awkwardly.
The woman had taken a step back, her eyes wide. It seemed a bad sign at first, but
then her face lit up with a smile, this time more genuine.
“Please?” Michael repeated, trying to show all the humility he possessed. I can be good
at this human thing, he thought, making his own smile brighter.
“Come in,” Sarah’s mom said as she swung the door open wide. “We’ve heard more
about you than you could possibly know, young man. Our daughter has wanted to meet
you in person for years, but we didn’t expect such a … surprise.” Another warm smile.
“My name is Nancy.”
Michael almost wished he had a hat—he felt like he’d take it off and wring it in his
hands as he timidly stepped inside, like something out of an old black-and-white. He
settled for nodding and keeping his eyes low. He didn’t want to screw up this one
chance.
Nancy closed the door behind him, then stepped to the other side of the hallway,
which stretched toward the kitchen. Michael was pretty sure he’d heard her engage the
lock—or maybe it was an automatic mechanism.
“Gerard, you can come out now!” Nancy yelled. “It’s just a friend of Sarah’s!”
A side door along the hallway swung open, creaking on its hinges. A man stepped out,
a burly, bald, gruff-looking guy holding a small gun with white-knuckled fingers,
pointing it directly at Michael.
“Let’s go have a seat, then,” the man said.
Michael sat in the middle of Sarah’s family’s couch, reminding himself over and over
that he was not in a game, that the option of rushing the man—tackling him, perhaps,
wrestling the gun away—was not actually an option. It was a truly terrible idea. The
situation was so bizarre it felt like he was in the VirtNet. But in this case, a gunshot to
the chest meant death, not an irritating do-over. He concentrated on just sitting still and
making no sudden movements. And smiling.
Sarah’s parents—were they really her parents?—sat across from him in separate
chairs, her father resting the gun on his knee so that its barrel still pointed at Michael.
At Michael’s face, actually: he could see the perfectly round black hole, a dark
passageway to certain death. His chest felt tight as he took a breath of air.
The sweet smile that had graced Sarah’s mother’s face had once again vanished.
“Did I … uh … do something wrong?” he asked. “Where is Sarah?” Speaking helped; it
made him feel braver.