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when everyone at the table seemed to all hear the thunder at the same time. Except that we all knew it wasn’t thunder.
    We all looked up and saw that there was a dark rain cloud up there. Then the rain cloud broke open and something came out of it.
    Something big and dark.
    A hive ship.
    It wasn’t alone, though. There were a hundred drop-ships and one red one. That’s weird because the Bug ships aren’t any color. Just metal colored. This one was dark red and it scares me more than anything. Even more than the hive ships. That one flew right toward us.
    Then all the ships began shooting and everything caught fire.

H ey, loser,” said a voice, and Milo jumped three feet in the air.
    He landed, whirled, and glared as a big chunk of the shadows detached itself from the gloom between the storm-darkened trees. It resolved into a shape that was short and almost as wide as it was tall. Except for height, everything about Shark was big. Big hands, big feet, big belly, big neck, and a head that looked like a big bucket. Skin the color of dark chocolate, intensely brown eyes flecked with gold, and hair that—after he lost a bet last week—was tied into neat little cornrows.
    William Sharkey. Shark to everyone.
    A second, much smaller shadow followed at his heels. Killer. A tiny Jack Russell terrier Shark’s aunt Jenny had brought back from a patrol. It was about the size of a good meat loaf and seemed to think that all humans existed to either feed him or pet him. In Milo’s experience, most humans tended to accept this as the way things should be.
    â€œYo,” called Shark, grinning broadly enough to show a lot of teeth. “Wow. What’s your damage?”
    Milo cleared his throat. “Oh. Hey.”
    Shark ambled up, hands shoved into his pockets. He glanced at Milo’s face. “Geez, what’s wrong with you, dude? You look like you seen a ghost.”
    Milo pointed to the clearing. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you see it?”
    â€œSee what?” Shark was the same age as Milo. Almost twelve. Though unlike Milo, Shark already had the beginnings of black smudging on his upper lip. He had armpit hair, too. A lot of it. As the camp cook, Mr. Mustapha, once said, “Shark didn’t hit puberty. Puberty ran that boy down with a truck.”
    â€œThe wolf!” exclaimed Milo. “And the girl?”
    â€œWhat wolf? What girl?” Shark began to smile, waiting for this to turn into a joke. When it didn’t, he said, “You serious?”
    Milo explained what happened. Not all of it, though. He told him the bare facts—finding the crash, seeing the eyes, meeting the girl, being grabbed, then seeing the wolf. For reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, he didn’t go into all the details. He found himself deliberately holding some things back and didn’t know why.
    He told Shark about Oakenayl and the orphans and all of that, but he didn’t mention the witch. Not yet, even though the girl’s words rang in his head.
    Tell them the witch was right. That’s what she’d said. He tried to tell himself that there was no way she could possibly have meant the Witch of the World, that strange old crone who’d been haunting his dreams.
    Though . . . more than once things from his dreams had appeared in the waking world. This was one thing he did not want intruding into real life. A witch? Seriously. No.
    It all sounded too bizarre, too crazy, and he knew Shark—who was very smart and very sharp—would ask a lot of questions that Milo simply could not answer. The whole story would go into his dream diary. That’s where he always stored away the absolute truth.
    Even the abbreviated version of the story was strange enough, though. As Shark listened, his face became more serious. When Milo was done with his story, Shark grunted.
    â€œOkay, that’s really, really weird.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou