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can. There’s going to be some sort of meeting tomorrow at midnight. Everyone has to attend.
    B52: Or?
    Robocop: Do you really want to find out?
    Tam: They can’t make us. They’re not in charge any more. Ashley is.
    D: Has anyone seen Ashley?
    I watch the screen, desperately willing someone to answer. No one does.
    D: We have to find out where she is.
    I pull over the keyboard, ready to type.
    D: Not you, Z. You need to stay away.
     
    I stick my tongue out at the blinking cursor. I can’t help myself. If Dante and Bron keep treating me like a child, I’m going to act like one. Then I feel bloody silly and stop.
     
    B52: He’s right. Leave home too. You can’t let them get you.
    Robocop: Why’s Z so special? We should be worried about Ashley. She’s the one who’s the dreamweaver. If they make her work for them then things could get v v v bad.
    I curl my fingers into a fist and slam it down, making the mouse and the keyboard jump an inch into the air. Ashley’s not the dreamweaver: I am.
    We all knew the Department would show up sooner or later, no matter how hard we tried to pretend otherwise. To be honest, it’s almost a relief that the inevitable has arrived. There’s no way I’m going to let them do anything to hurt Ashley though. It would be my fault if something happened to her. I’ll go to their stupid meeting and see what they want. And then I’ll do something about it.
    I check the clock: it’s still the middle of the night. I could try and fall asleep again and head back to the Dreamlands. I know instinctively, however, that I won’t be able to nod off without chemical inducement.
    My body is fizzing with an indefinable mix of emotions; whether it’s excitement or terror or just pure anticipation, I have no idea. Either way, I’m far too buoyed up.
    I pad to the kitchen and make a cup of tea, sipping it while I stare out at the dark garden. It’s still overgrown with weeds, despite the fact that I’m no longer trapped indoors. Pulling up dandelions is far down my list of priorities. I let the ticking of the clock and the familiar surroundings envelop me. Despite what Bron – because that’s who I’m assuming B52 is – said online, I’m not going to run away. I feel safer here than I do anywhere else and I’m damned if I’m going to let the Department force me out of my home. If I could beat the damn Mayor, then I can beat them.
    I’m watching the Chairman’s outline as he skulks under a bush, no doubt in pursuit of prey, when I see him bolt upright, his ears cocked. I freeze. A moment later there’s the sound of a car engine from out front. I bite down so hard on my tongue that it brings tears to my eyes. Have they found me already?
    Carefully placing the cup into the sink, I edge towards the front door. I’m well aware of all my neighbours’ routines ‒ that was part and parcel of my former life as a cooped-up freak. This is Wednesday. There’s no reason any of them would drive into our quiet cul-de-sac at this time of night. Most of them are either early risers with young families, or retirees.
    Avoiding the windows and keeping my movements slow and steady to avoid alerting whoever’s out there, I slink to the doorway. I touch each lock lightly; old habits die hard and I’m compelled to make sure I’ve secured every one. Unless they blow my damn house up or commandeer a tank, they’re not getting in.
    I suck in a breath and peer out of the spyhole. There’s sufficient glow from the orange streetlamps for me to see most of the road, apart from the section blocked by the tree at the front. I squint. There’s definitely a car out there and there’s definitely someone in it. It’s too far away for me to tell whether there’s more than one person in it.
    I step back and scoop up my phone from the little wooden table that sits in my hallway. Should I call the police? I have no cause just yet, but they’re well aware of my foibles. I grip the receiver, feeling the taut lines