The bus stopped without a sound.
No screech of brakes. No jolt. Just motion… and then none.
Kyle noticed first because his body leaned forward, expecting the stop that never came.
"Do you recognize this place?" he asked.
Liz was already looking out the window.
"No," she said.
The road had ended.
Not turned. Not split. Ended—like someone had simply decided not to finish drawing it.
Beyond the bus stretched a wide, open clearing bordered by trees that were all the same height, the same shape, the same shade of green. Too even. Too intentional.
Students began to murmur.
"Is this a park?"
"Did we get the wrong bus?"
"Where's the museum?"
Kyle stood slowly, gripping the top of the seat in front of him. "Driver?"
The driver didn't respond.
His hands were still folded. His eyes still forward.
Liz's fingers tightened around Kyle's hand.
The bus door opened.
Warm air rushed in, carrying the smell of cut grass and something metallic underneath.
A woman stood outside.
Not the librarian.
This woman was younger—maybe mid-thirties—with dark hair pulled neatly back and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She wore a friendly smile that sat perfectly on her face, like it had been practiced.
"Good morning, students," she called. "Welcome."
"To where?" someone asked.
The woman glanced down at her clipboard. "Your destination."
Kyle felt Liz shift beside him. "That's not an answer," she said.
The woman's smile didn't falter. "It's the correct one."
Students began filing off the bus, hesitation dissolving under the weight of expectation. Kyle stayed seated.
Liz stayed with him.
"You don't have to be afraid," the woman said, her gaze landing on them. "Everything here is designed for you."
Kyle swallowed. "By who?"
She paused.
"By the system," she said.
Liz stood. "We're not part of it."
The woman finally looked at her directly. Really looked.
Her eyes flicked to the clipboard.
Then back to Liz.
For the first time, her smile slipped.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Kyle felt the air change.
"Students," the woman said briskly, recovering. "Please gather in the clearing."
Kyle leaned close to Liz. "That felt bad."
Liz nodded. "She checked for us."
They stepped off the bus together.
The door shut behind them.
The engine didn't start again.
Behind the trees, something shifted.
And Greywick—far away, but still watching—waited to see what they would do next.
Kyle felt it before he saw it—the sense of a wrong note in a chord that had already sounded off.
As students gathered in loose clusters in the clearing, his eyes drifted, scanning faces. Familiar ones from Greywick High. Familiar voices. Familiar ways of standing.
And then—
There.
A boy stood a few yards away, hands in the pockets of a faded green jacket. He looked about Kyle's age. Dark hair, too neat for a field trip. Shoes clean in a way that suggested they hadn't walked very far—ever.
Kyle frowned.
He knew everyone in their grade. Not well, but enough to place them. Clubs, classes, hallways.
This boy didn't belong to any of that.
Kyle nudged Liz lightly with his elbow. "Do you recognize him?"
Liz followed his gaze. Her brow furrowed. "No."
The boy wasn't talking to anyone. He wasn't looking confused either. He stood perfectly still, watching the woman with the clipboard like she was a screen waiting to update.
A chill crept up Kyle's spine.
"What if," he whispered, "he didn't come from Greywick?"
Liz's eyes sharpened. "You think they planted him?"
"Or he's from another… correction."
The woman clapped her hands once. The sound carried too far.
"Attention, everyone!" she called. "Please line up."
The boy moved immediately.
Not hurried. Not hesitant.
On time.
Kyle watched him take his place at the front of the line.
The woman glanced at her clipboard again.
Her eyes flicked—just briefly—toward Kyle.
Then toward the boy.
She checked a box.
Liz caught the motion too. Her fingers slid into Kyle's, tight. "Kyle," she murmured. "We're not the only variables."
Kyle swallowed. "Yeah."
The trees rustled, though there was no wind.
The system was adjusting.
And someone else was already part of the equation.