urse Riley viewed my tongue. Checked my pupils. Stuck a thermometer into my mouth.

Though she poked and prodded her best, none of my symptoms reappeared. My vitals came up perfectly normal. Baffled, she gave me two Tylenol and released me back to class.

Her failure wasn’t surprising, since I didn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t share what had really happened. How I’d lost control.

Second period was in full swing. AP British Literature. Handing over my pass, I took my seat between Hi and Shelton. Both looked relieved to see me.

Mr. Edde, a tall and gangly Hispanic man with an eight-inch Afro, was discussing the merits of iambic pentameter. I tried to concentrate on the lesson.

“Tory.” Whispered. “Tor!”

I slid my eyes right. Hi’s new phone lay nestled between the pages of his book. Without looking down, he typed a message.

Oh so casual, I slipped my cell from my purse. Powered it on.

Hi’s text held a link.

Click. A chat room flashed onto my screen.

I glanced up. Mr. Edde was death on cell phones. He’d already confiscated a dozen that semester.

The gods were smiling. After instructing the class to read a chapter on seventeenth century poetry, Mr. Edde rounded his desk. A moment of scrutiny, then he sat, tipped his chair back, and focused on a crossword puzzle.

The room quieted. Feigning absorption in John Milton, I turned my attention to cyberspace.

Two avatars lurked. The image of Napoleon Dynamite was Hi. Shelton was represented by the Abominable Snowman eating a giant robot. Don’t ask.

My own avatar—a gray wolf done in black and white—was the only other character present.

Hi had already posted.

Napoleon: Where did you go? You freaked me out!!!

Moving ever so discreetly, I replied.

Wolf: Nurse. Kept quiet, but something’s wrong with me. Bad!

Napoleon: Me too! Not just flu. Weird things.

Snowman: I’m worse. Going crazy!

I glanced to the left. Shelton’s foot was tapping like he was playing Rock Band on expert.

To the right. Hi’s jacket was off, his top button undone. He was wheezing like an ancient and scratching his arms.

Hope packed up and headed out the door. My illness wasn’t isolated. We’d caught something together. Something nasty.

I typed fast, watching Mr. Edde with one eye.

Wolf: Need to meet. Today. Bunker. Not a word until then.

Fingers danced on both sides of me. Willing Mr. Edde to stay engrossed in his puzzle, I dropped my eyes.

Snowman: Too sick. Getting scared. May tell Mom.

Napoleon: No bathroom in the bunker. Problem.

I felt a prickle of irritation. Didn’t they realize the source of the illness? We couldn’t tell our parents. Not with Karsten watching.

My fingers flew across the screen.

Wolf: Must talk first, sick or not! In private. Bunker. After school. Super important.

Wolf: Say NOTHING! Not even to each other!

Mr. Edde lowered the front legs of his chair, a sure sign he was retiring the crossword. Conversation over.

I dropped my cell into my purse. Hi slipped his into his front pocket. I raised an eyebrow. Well?

Hi ran both hands through his hair, pretended to pull it out. Then nodded.

Shelton squirmed, frowned, dipped his chin curtly.

All aboard.

Now to get through the day. One class at a time.

A light breeze meandered the marina, carrying with it the scent of salt water, hydrangeas, and diesel fuel. On the harbor, sails flashed white in the afternoon sun.

The heat and humidity both hovered around ninety. Not a day for the great outdoors.

Upon boarding the shuttle, Hi and Shelton had headed straight for the semi-air-conditioned cabin. We hadn’t talked since second period, wouldn’t until we reached the privacy of the bunker.

Neither seemed happy, but they hadn’t rebelled. Yet. I’d get an earful later, no question about that.

I chewed a thumbnail, repeatedly scanned the dock. Where was Ben? I hadn’t seen him since biology. He’d missed both of the afternoon classes we shared.

Ben’s continuing good health was my ace in the hole. If he succumbed, hello panic.

As if on cue, Ben came loping down the dock. Mr. Blue shoved off the second his son’s shoes hit the deck.

“Welcome aboard, sir. Shall I show you to your cabin?”

Ignoring my joke, Ben dropped onto the stern bench, stretched his legs, and leaned back.

I waited. There was no rushing Ben.

Finally, he spoke. “I feel like three-day-old spit.”!!!Crap.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. My head hurts, my lungs, my feet, even my teeth. It makes no sense.”

It made terrifying sense.

“And that’s not the worst of it.”

As he talked, Ben watched our wake vee back toward the city. Above it, gulls swooped and bobbed, anxious for scraps.

“My body’s out of whack. I keep going in and out of some kind of trance.

“Yesterday, in my garage, my heart went apeshit, and I felt flames race through my veins. I started to fall, so I grabbed some metal shelving nailed to the wall.”

Ben avoided my eyes. “My dad has an old Z28 engine he’s using to restore a Camaro. Anyway, the shelving came loose and the engine started to fall on me.”

Ben’s eyes finally met mine. “That thing weighs a ton. I could’ve been killed.”

“What happened?”

“I caught it.” Disbelief. “The heat flashed, I reached up, and I caught the frickin’ engine. I even placed it back on the shelf.” Ben sounded as though he’d replayed the scene again and again in his mind.

“That’s impossible, right?”

“No,” I said gently. “I have a lot to tell you.”