Matt laughs that perfect laugh of his and in that moment, despite my confusion over the program, I’m glad that I told him everything. I feel closer to him than ever.
When he leans in and kisses me this time, there’s something new between us. Instead of first-kiss-with-a-hot-guy giddiness, there’s something deeper. I can feel it in my toes and in my belly button.
And in my heart.
When Matt leaves, I log on to my regular computer and see if Megan’s online. I message her and tell her cryptically about the evening. At least the part with Matt.
Megan: You did WHAT????
Daisy: know.
Megan: M’s going to kill you.
Daisy: Maybe
Megan: Worth it?
Daisy: Yes, if nothing more than for the kiss at the end of the day.
Megan: Spill…
We chat for an hour, until Megan has to do homework and I have to update the blog. Before signing off, she writes:
Megan: Don’t forget to comment on my latest post. 
Curious, I type in the address for Anything Autopsy. Megan’s post is called “The Autopsy of the Queue” and is all about the personalities people reveal while standing in line (the cutters versus the cutees and the oblivious people in the middle who should have stayed home because they always seem so surprised when the clerk shouts “NEXT!”). Megan’s position is in defense of the cutter, who is just trying to make the most of her day. I spend an hour perfecting a platform for the cutee, which is built on the idea of karma. Practice patience and be rewarded with extra butter on your popcorn; cut and find yourself in the one seat in the theater with chocolate melted into the fabric.
I post my rebuttal, then get ready for bed. When I get back to my room, there’s a text waiting from Matt.
Matt: Can you talk?
Smiling, I type back:
Daisy: Call you in five?
Matt: I’ll be waiting.
I dial in the dark. Matt picks up after the first ring.
“I thought of something on the way home,” he says instead of hi.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t get why you guys moved here,” he says. My stomach sinks. I’m not sure why the idea of telling him I’ve been Revived more than once feels so bad, but it does. I think he mistakes my nervous silence for hurt. “I mean, I’m really glad you guys moved here. I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just—”
“Oh, I know,” I interrupt. “I’m a little embarrassed to tell you why. But I guess I’ve shared a lot today, so why not put it all out there?”
“Okay…”
“I’ve died five times.”
Now Matt’s the one who’s silent.
“Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Whoa.”
“I know,” I say, ashamed. “I mean really, it’s more like four—I had to be Revived twice after the bus crash—but technically, five vials means five deaths. After that first day… well, I’m really allergic to bees, and I guess I’m accident-prone, too.”
“No way,” Matt says. “What… I mean, what’s it like?”
“What?”
“Dying,” he says.
“Oh.”
“If you don’t mind talking about it,” he adds.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Um… I don’t really remember that much about it, to be honest.” It’s a total lie: I remember many graphic details, but I don’t want to cause Matt more pain than I already have. He might think death talk is fascinating right now, but later, when Audrey’s time comes, he’ll be haunted by my stories of being afraid and in pain.
“Oh, okay,” Matt says, sounding a little disappointed. But he changes the subject anyway. “Are you going back to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Audrey, too.”
“Really?” I ask, excited.
“Yep, the doctor cleared her,” Matt says happily. “Only he wants her to be with people at all times in case she has a problem, so my mom won’t let her drive to school alone. We’re going together.” Pause. “Want us to pick you up?”
I smile at how normal the conversation is now, even though Matt knows a completely abnormal thing about me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, we’ll be there at seven twenty.”
“Awesome.”
It’s late and that’s the logical end to the conversation, but I get the feeling that Matt wants to say something more. I wait patiently, my nervousness snowballing with each passing second. Finally, he speaks.
“Daisy…”
“Uh-huh?”
“That was one freaking weird afternoon,” he observes. His tone is low, intimate. It makes goose bumps pop up on my arms.
“I know.”
“But it was good,” Matt says.
“It was?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was weird, but it was okay, because of you. Because I feel like I know you a lot better now. I feel sort of honored that you told me all that. That you showed me the secret stuff.”
“Even though…” I say, feeling like I can’t even mention Audrey’s name.
“Yeah, Daisy,” Matt says. “Even though.”
twenty-one
I can’t sleep at all, and at three am, after my third trip to the bathroom, I find myself in the dark in Mason’s office. I’m drawn to Gavin’s file like I’m addicted. I don’t want to think about it, but in a way, I need to.
I log on with my handprint. When the prompt for the voice password appears, I tiptoe across the floor and quietly shut the office door so as not to wake Mason or Cassie. Back in the desk chair I say halcyon so low that I’m concerned the computer can’t hear me, but it does. I’m in.
I go to open Gavin’s file, but with the coding system I can’t remember which one it was. I brush my left hand over the icon for recent files and then expand the page so the details show. I sort by the time the files were last accessed and find what I’m looking for. But then I see something weird: A new folder was created yesterday. Even stranger still, though the folder is named like all the rest, it’s marked as “hidden” so that when you look in the main directory, you won’t find it unless you know it’s there.
“What’s this?” I whisper to myself, selecting the hidden folder, then the first file in it. Unlike the others, this one is typed instead of handwritten, but it’s formatted the same way. I’m nervous that it’s for another Chase—that one of the bus kids died again or something. I skim over the top and go to the “name” line, tipping my head in confusion when I see that it’s listed as “Confidential.”
A confidential name?
I read down the page and find that the drug worked: The subject was Revived and relocated to Franklin, Nevada, after the crash. Only it says “car,” not “bus,” so it was a different crash. Did one of the bus kids get in another accident?
I scroll up to the top to see which case number it is so that I can find the confidential Convert. It takes me a couple of frustrating seconds to locate it before finally I see that the file is for case number—
What?!
I suck in my breath. My hand flies to my mouth, and even though I’m alone, I murmur through my fingers: “That’s not possible.”
I know that I’m perfectly safe, in a locked house with two gun-toting government agents down the hall, but I’m instantly afraid. The room is too dark. The night is too still. What’s on the screen in front of me is too shocking. I’m so creeped out that I start to consider that I’m being watched. I log off like lightning and then hurry out of the office, across the hall, and into my bed.
Only then, when I’m burrowed down deep under the covers, do I think about what I saw.