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stopped in his tracks. The woman raised a pale arm and held up three fingers.
    She thrust her arm out in several short, quick jerks, emphasizing the number three to him, keeping an impossibly vapid expression the entire time.
    Then, abruptly, she turned and walked through the door into the next train car.
    Three.
    Three what ?
    Michael went after her.

    The next car wasn’t for passengers; it was some kind of storage area. There were two emergency exits, with first-aid equipment, fire extinguishers, and blankets bundled and tied down on metal shelves that lined one of the walls. The woman had stopped in the middle of the car, her back to Michael, her head hanging as if she were staring at the floor. For some reason the sight reminded him of a zombie game he used to love, Undead and Unfed . He half expected her to turn around and shuffle toward him, a raving, hungry monster, her face covered with blood and gore. But she didn’t move at all. Goose bumps prickled the back of Michael’s neck.
    He cleared his throat, refusing to admit that he was scared of an old woman.
    “Who are you?” he asked, glad his voice was steady when it came out.
    She didn’t answer. Or move. She remained frozen, her back to Michael.
    “Why were you watching me? And what do you mean by—”
    He stopped speaking as she raised an arm, slowly, once again showing three fingers, stiff and trembling. She stopped only when her arm was all the way up, like a child wanting to ask a question in class.
    Michael stared at her back, her three fingers raised in the air. He searched for words.
    “What does the number three have to do with me? Who are you?” His voice might not have been so steady this time.
    The woman slowly turned, her movements sluggish. It was as if she’d used every last ounce of energy she had trying to get away from Michael. Her head still hung low until her body fully faced him; then she looked up to meet his eyes, arm still high overhead.
    “Just tell me what’s going on,” Michael said, frustrated at the game of charades.
    “Three,” she whispered. He wouldn’t have been able to make out the word if he hadn’t read her lips. “I’m one of you. Three.”
    “Three what ?” he pleaded. “Were you a Tangent, too? Can we sit down and talk about this? Please.”
    Her voice was a little louder when she replied. “You have three days.”
    “Three days until what?”
    “To change your mind.”
    Before Michael could ask her about Kaine, she confirmed his suspicion.
    “Kaine is no longer the servant of his programmer. Things have changed from the original plans. He needs your help. You need his. And … he doesn’t like it when people disobey.” For the first time, her expression shifted. She smiled. Passengers had arrived at both entrances to the storage car, were gaping through the windows.
    Michael stayed silent.
    The smile vanished. The woman’s eyes seemed to glazeover as she finally lowered her arm. Then she turned again, stopping when she was looking straight at the emergency exit door on the side of the car. The train jerked, reminding Michael just how fast the thing was traveling. Surely the woman didn’t mean to—
    In a flash she was at the door, reaching for the bright red handle. She yanked it down and an ear-popping explosion of sound filled the car as the door flew open, banging against the side of the train, just as an alarm started to clang. Michael fell to the floor, gasping at the rush of air blasting in. Streaks of color raced by—the greens and browns of a forest—and the wind ripped at the woman’s clothes as she held on to the frame of the opening.
    Then she took a step, disappearing from view in an instant.
    Michael stared out into the blur, waiting, but there was nothing. Not even a scream.

Alarms filled the air and the train’s brakes screeched as it slowed, then finally came to a full stop. Michael was clutching a metal shelf. He still held tightly long after the train was no longer moving.