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“You shouldn’t tell strangers your name, either.” I offer her my free hand. “I’m Saine.”

She smiles at me, taking it with her smaller hand. “You’re pretty. Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“Your dad is probably old enough to bemydad.”

“I’m not here with my dad. I’m with my brother. And as you can tell, he’s quite the dork to be doing this.” She points to herself. “He needs all the help he can get.”

“We should return you to him.” And I need to get back in there.

I can kiss even the chance ofapplyingto the pilot program goodbye if I don’t lock down one of these contestants tonight. My grandma was so excited when I told her about it. She researched new cameras, brainstormed topics, suggested subjects from the community, and queued up documentaries for us to watch in our own version of a film festival every weekendfor a month. It was important to me, so it was important to her. After my mom decided she had no interest in art, I think my grandma felt this was her second chance at raising someone with an artistic passion. I can’t let her down.

Inside, I count thirteen players left “alive” on the scoreboard. Mara and I inch as close as we can, but the people on the ground floor are too tall, packed too thickly to move through. Mara latches onto my arm and starts squeezing through, able to bend under their arms and slither around their sides. Bless her for thinking my much larger body can melt down to the same size as hers. It seems impossible that I was ever as small as she is. I somehow manage to get through, though, just in time for one contestant to get straight-up murdered.

“Only ten spots are open for the next event, yet twelve players remain,” Chrissy Lo says into the microphone from somewhere I can’t see. “Who will end this game?”

“Is your brother still in?” I ask Mara offhandedly. Maybe she sees him on the outskirts of the arena and can meet up with him without my help. Or maybe he’s still in play and I can use her to introduce me so I can beg him to be in my documentary. It makes me all upside-down smiley face to know my future could very shortly be at the mercy of some random white dude.

“I don’t know. I don’t see him.” She stands on her tiptoes but doesn’t even come up to the shoulders of the man in front of her.

I aim my camera at the contestants still in play, trying to capture the winning moment, but it’s pretty impossible with this new, shitty vantage point I have and the fact that if they’renot running for a flag, they’re hiding behind or below shelves. The optimal place for filming is definitely in the center of the second floor.

A chorus of yeses and nos fills the room simultaneously as a buzzer goes off, ending the loud music and making me nearly drop my camera. I panic, unsure if I should film the scoreboard or try to get the victors’ glory. I shove the camera over a guy’s shoulder just in time to film the winners running out of the arena with raised hands. The last person out does a conceited spin to see the crowd cheering him on. Everyone but me.

Because it’s Holden Michaels.