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We break apart, and Ember sends me a sheepish smile. “I guess a bonus of that little misstep is that you won’t think what I’m about to tell you is anywhere near as bad as it could be.”

Nothingcould be as bad as what I’d feared she was going to say, so she’s right about that.

“Even so,” she says, guiding me to the seat beside hers, “you should sit down for this.”

I’m still trembling enough that I yield limply when she pushes on my shoulders, and I crumple onto the chair. She sits much more gracefully, her years of dance classes making her move fluidly even when she’s not trying.

“I want you to take a deep breath,” Ember instructs, “and think calming, tranquil thoughts.”

I shake off the last of my fear and pin my eyes on my friend, her words bringing a new kind of alarm to me, especially coupled with the look on her face. Because now the sadness and resignation are gone, and in their place is apology—and guilt.

The determination, however, is stronger than ever.

“What have you done this time?” I ask with a sigh.

Ever since entering remission, Ember has been all about living life to the fullest. I love that for her, I really do. But my friend also follows the better-to-ask-forgiveness-than-seek-permission mentality, and it frequently lands her in trouble. I only hope she hasn’t “borrowed” our neighbor’s dog again, since last time it took two gift vouchers and a homemade pavlova to stop old Mrs. Kirby from reporting the dognapping to the police. Admittedly, Ember’s claim of “But Buddy loves me more!” didn’t do her any favors.

“I’m just going to rip the bandaid off,” she says. “So keep breathing and hold onto those tranquil thoughts.”

I frown at her, getting worried now. “Em, what?—”

She talks over me, her words blending together in her rush to get them out. “IwontheZanderRunecompetition.”

I blink twice and lean back in my seat, certain I must have misheard.PrayingI misheard. “Say it again, minus the chipmunk speed?”

Ember bites her lip, likely noting my rapidly paling features, then repeats, “I, uh, well... I won the, um, the Zander Rune competition. The one with Rykon Hawke. They called me this afternoon.” She utters a nervous laugh and tugs at her hair. The strands are growing back thick now that her treatments are over, but the length is still short enough that she can’t get a good grip. “I thought it was a scammer or someone else messing with me, but turns out it’s legit. I won. And not even on any of the fake entries—on my real entry.”

I stare at her in horror, lost for a response.

“They said millions of people applied,” Ember goes on, rambling now to fill my silence. “Even with our dummy email addresses, the odds of either of us winning were basically zero. Can you believe that?”

When I continue to remain mute, she bites her lip again, the look in her eyes warning me to brace.

“The thing is,” she says slowly, fiddling with the buttons on her denim jacket, “there’s a slight hiccup. You know how I had that chest infection last month?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, I called Dr. Gibbons after I got the news about winning, and he said that since I’ve only just finished the second course of antibiotics, he’s worried about my immunity being compromised. And given, you know, my history”—she says this fast, as if what she went through was nothing, when we both know she’s buried her trauma deep beneath her smiles—“he’s strongly advised against me being out in the elements for a multiday survival situation right now.”

I could kiss Dr. Gibbons. In fact, the next time I see the grandfatherly hematologist, I plan to do exactly that.

“I’m sorry, Em,” I say, patting her leg. I know how much she wants this, but I’m also knee-weakeningly relieved that she’s smart enough to listen to her doctor—just as I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to make her see reason, which is what I’d feared most upon us entering the competition. At least this way, I’m not the one crushing her dreams.

I expect to see devastation in her features, maybe tears. But all I can see is that apologetic-yet-determined look, even fiercer than before.

A slow sense of dread builds in me when she takes my hand, as if to keep me from running away.

“Remember those tranquil thoughts?” Ember asks, her fingers tightening. “This is the part where you’re going to need them.”

Through stiff lips, I ask, “What did youdo?”

She winces, then pulls her phone from her pocket to open her social media. Every part of me solidifies when she flips the screen around for me to see.

Her hand still holding mine gives a squeeze. “Please don’t hate me.”

I open my mouth and shut it again, unable to form speech, my eyes locked on the media blast:

SMALL-TOWN AUSSIE TEENAGER CHARLIE HART WINS SURVIVAL TRIP OF A LIFETIME WITH ZANDER RUNE AND RYKON HAWKE!

There’s even a picture of me, a horrendous image from what has to be at least three years ago, since I have a mouth full of metal braces, my face is covered in acne, and my hair is a shocking shade of orange—the only poor choice Ember ever made for me.

An unintelligible sound leaves my throat when the post doesn’t magically vanish, nor does my supposed best friend burst into laughter and confess that it’s a fake announcement she mocked up herself.