Ziggy stared up the long slope. “If I die on the way up, don’t bury me. I’m sure a sandstorm will come along.”

  They started up the incline. The camel advanced tirelessly. Victor and Ziggy huffed and puffed alongside the animal. When they reached the top, a large pyramid came into sight, with only a couple of smaller dunes concealing the base.

  “What do you know?” Ziggy said. “I’d rather see a Holiday Inn, but it’s better than more sand.”

  “Maybe it draws tourists,” Victor said. “Is it too much to hope that we could catch a ride with someone?”

  “We can’t see the far side,” Mozag said. “Or the base. We’ll have to approach it to know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Think we’ll find some sphinxes behind it?” Ziggy asked.

  “I’d rather find a ginger ale,” Victor replied.

  “Onward,” Mozag said. “At least we can hope for some shade before you two collapse.”

  “It’ll take more than a little heat and some sand in my shoes to defeat Ziggy Battiato,” he said bravely.

  “Maybe we should have taken our chances with the firefight,” Victor said. “Hard to go down with style hiking in the desert.”

  “We’ve survived worse,” Mozag said.

  “If we die, think we’ll wake up?” Ziggy asked hopefully.

  “Only one way to find out,” Victor said, starting down the far side of the dune.

  By the time they summitted the dune nearest the pyramid, Ziggy and Victor were having a hard time staying on their feet. Both had taken multiple spills, and their suits were sandy enough to prove it. Even the camel showed signs of flagging.

  “It’s tremendous,” Mozag said, studying the pyramid. “Reminds me of the Great Pyramid of Giza. But it’s all alone out here. No settlement in sight.”

  “Maybe all the action is behind it,” Ziggy said. “The fella vending snow cones and whatnot.”

  The ground began to tremble. Vibrating sand shifted on the slopes below them.

  Victor took out his gun, looking around. “Another attack?”

  The quaking increased, and the camel got skittish, snorting and sidestepping. Staggering to stay on his feet, Ziggy gripped the reins tighter. Trickles of sand slid down the slope.

  “Look at the pyramid,” Mozag said in wonder. “Is it getting bigger? Rising out of the sand?”

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” Ziggy said.

  “What’s it mean, boss?” Victor asked.

  “We’re only looking at the tip of the iceberg,” Mozag said. “See, it keeps growing. This pyramid extends down deep, and it has decided to surface.”

  “Are you sure?” Victor asked.

  “My senses are awakening,” Mozag said. “My power is returning.”

  The earthquake grew louder and more violent. A hot wind began to blow. The pyramid emerged faster, towering ever higher above the surrounding dunes.

  Victor fell to his knees. Ziggy went down as well, losing his hold on the reins. The camel reared, and Mozag fell to the shuddering sand.

  “My hat!” Mozag barked, feeling his hair.

  The camel ran down the slope at breakneck speed, the Cubs cap in its mouth.

  Ziggy and Victor tried to aim their weapons at the fleeing animal as the sand bucked and heaved beneath them. Shots rang out. A howling gale raised a stinging screen of gritty sand.

  “This was a trap!” Mozag called, hands up to protect his sandblasted face. “Might have been all about the hat!”

  “Never trust a found camel,” Ziggy blurted.

  “We’re under attack, and I’m utterly vulnerable,” Mozag said. “I have to take another shape.” He looked to the sky. “I’m still not sure where we are.”

  “What should we do?” Victor asked.

  “Wake up,” Mozag cried. “Fight to escape the dream. We’re somewhere in the dreamscape—but in some altered version I’ve never experienced. And we’re not alone. We’re being watched. I can feel it. This is not something you can protect me from. Stay alive, if you can. I gotta go.”

  With those final words, Mozag shrank into the form of an aardvark.

  Chapter One

  New School

  Nate awoke with a start, surprised to be in his bed. The dream had been incredibly vivid, like living inside a movie. Except instead of participating, he had simply followed the action as an observer. Mozag had fled a restaurant into the desert, and, in the end, the old magician had turned into an aardvark.

  As leader of the enforcers tasked with policing the magicians of the world, Mozag was extremely powerful. The dream was probably nonsense, but Nate wished he had a way to make sure the mage was all right.

  Glancing at his clock, Nate saw that he was ten minutes ahead of his alarm. Plenty of time to talk to Rocco.

  Nate kicked off his covers and went to the window. The seagull stood outside on the little apron of roof. Nate opened the window, and the seagull’s head swiveled his way. Nate reached into a bag on the windowsill, as the bird stepped expectantly from one foot to the other. When Nate tossed a few kibbles of Brain Feed onto the shingles, the gull hopped forward and snatched one up.

  “Morning, human,” the seagull said, the magical snack having restored its ability to speak.

  “Good morning, Rocco,” Nate said. “Any news?”

  “I dunno, I dunno, seems like there was something,” Rocco said, munching down a second fragment of Brain Feed. “It’s all getting hazy. Sure wish I had some bread.”

  Nate stared down at the gull. He had experimented all summer giving Brain Feed to various animals, trying to find reliable informants. He’d learned that just because animals gained boosted intelligence and the ability to speak didn’t necessarily mean they wanted to be helpful. Domestic animals were more reliable talkers, but Nate had wanted a winged spy.

  Not all birds were willing to eat the kibbles. Most ignored what he sprinkled by the bird feeder in the backyard. Ducks would gobble them up, but after the temporary upgrade, each enlightened duck told him to “scram” or “get lost” and swam away. He had tried the kibbles on several seagulls, and they mostly laughed at him, hurling insults like “stupid human” or “land plodder.”

  Rocco had been different. He had mocked Nate at first, but when Nate pulled out a sandwich, the gull started asking for bread. An understanding had quickly followed. Even without the influence of the kibbles, Rocco appeared outside Nate’s window every morning.

  “I’ve got your merchandise,” Nate said, casually displaying a whole slice of white bread. “Do you have anything worth telling?” He moved the bread behind his hip.

  “Hard to say for sure,” Rocco said. “I’m so hungry.”

  Nate tore off a bit of crust and tossed it onto the roof. “Start talking.”

  “As usual, boring humans doing boring human stuff,” Rocco said. “Moving slow, unless they’re in cars.”

  Nate moved to close the window. It was all part of the act. “I’m going to go make myself some toast.”

  “Wait!” Rocco cried. “I might have something. I’m getting better at noticing even when the Brain Feed wears thin.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Your friend, Mr. Stott, had a late visitor,” Rocco said.

  “Who?”

  “A man,” Rocco said. “Not old, not young. In a suit. I don’t know his name.”

  “Did he look strong?” Nate asked.

  “Pretty big man,” Rocco said.

  “How late?”

  “Long after dark. Almost no cars out.”

  “That’s something,” Nate said, tossing a couple pieces of torn bread onto the roof. “What else?”

  “Some teenage kids were getting rowdy at the graveyard,” Rocco said. “One threw a bottle at me. Gave me a scare. What is the matter with humans?”

  “Were they digging up bodies?” Nate asked.

  “Just running around and being loud,” Rocco said. “They scattered when a police car came.”

  Nate tossed another pinch of bread, and Rocco snatched it up.

  “Anything new at the fairgrounds?” Nate asked.

  “The carnies are almost done,” Rocco said. “They built all sorts of strange structures.”

  Nate had visited the outskirts of the fairgrounds with his friends several times. They had seen the Ferris wheel, the big tents, and the Fun House take shape quickly over the past few days. It was the first time he had seen the grounds used since he had moved to Colson a year ago.

  “And Diablo View?” Nate asked.

  “It’s been busy,” Rocco said. “Is today your first day there?”

  “It’s everyone’s first day there,” Nate said.

  “Not everyone,” Rocco corrected. “Lots of grown-ups were there yesterday.”

  “Those were teachers setting up,” Nate said. “No kids have gone there yet, except for orientation. It’s a brand-new school.”

  Back in June, there had been some question as to whether the new middle school would be finished in time for the following school year. Two weeks ago, it was confirmed that many kids would transfer from two other middle schools, along with all the sixth graders within the boundaries. Going to Diablo View meant that instead of ruling Mount Diablo Elementary, Nate and his friends would be at the bottom of the pecking order, behind seventh and eighth graders.

  “I’ll come check it out,” Rocco said. “I figure most other seagulls will be flocking to the standard haunts. I might score big at the new place.”

  “I’ll watch for you,” Nate said, tossing out the rest of the slice of bread onto the shingles. “If not, see you tomorrow.”

  “You bet,” Rocco said, taking up the piece of bread and flying off before Nate had shut the window.

  Nate flinched as his alarm started beeping. That sound always set him on edge. He turned it off and walked to the bathroom. He hoped his dream didn’t mean Mozag was in trouble. He would ask Mr. Stott about it, just in case.

  Who had visited Mr. Stott in the night? Could John Dart be back in town? One of the Battiato brothers?

  Teeth brushed, Nate hurried downstairs. With Cheryl in eighth grade, Nate was back in the same school as his sister. Diablo View was no farther away than Mount Diablo Elementary, less than a mile from his home. Mom had made it clear she expected him and his sister to walk or bike to school, but since this was their first day, she had planned to give them a ride.

  “You don’t have to be nervous, Nate,” Mom said as he buckled his seat belt.

  “Or maybe you do,” Cheryl said from her seat up front. “I remember my first day of middle school. Lots of different classes scattered all over the school. No recess. And the big kids seemed so mature.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nate said. “Someday you’ll catch up.”

  “Very funny,” Cheryl said. “Let’s see how confident you are in a few minutes. It’s about to get real.”

  “I’ve handled worse,” Nate said.

  “Like what?” Cheryl challenged.

  Many thoughts flashed through Nate’s mind. Using magical candy to fight the apprentices of Mrs. White. Fracturing into three versions of himself in a race against time. Protecting a copy of the Earth from a lunatic magician.

  But he couldn’t discuss those adventures. Only a few people knew what really happened.

  “Like building Lego Hogwarts,” Nate said.

  Cheryl shrugged. “I guess that might help you find your way around. I think Diablo View used the same blueprints.”

  Mom slowed down as the traffic on Swamp Creek Road thickened. Adults wearing orange vests stood in front of the school, directing traffic. Nate looked in frustration at kids with backpacks walking faster than their car stuck in the bumper-to-bumper drop-off line.

  When the chain of cars in front of them came to a stop, Nate unclipped his seat belt and opened the door. “Bye, Mom.”

  He hopped out, shut the door, and joined the stream of kids moving along the sidewalk. Cheryl glared at him like he had done something wrong, but Nate figured she was just jealous he would beat her into the school.

  He saw some familiar faces among the droves of kids, but he also noticed students who looked like high schoolers—boys and girls transitioning into their adult sizes. Nate wished he was taller. Trevor had grown a lot over the past year, and Summer was now clearly the second tallest in the group. Nate’s dad was fairly tall; he told himself he just needed to be patient.

  A stout crossing guard held up a hand for the pedestrians to wait as he waved cars forward. He was an older guy, probably retired. Nate watched his mom’s car roll past, then the guard opened up the crosswalk. Nate walked as fast as he could without running. He soon found he didn’t need to worry—the line of cars advanced in short bursts with plenty of long pauses. His mom and sister were still waiting to turn in to the parking lot when he reached the entrance.

  A portion of the lot had covered parking topped with shiny black solar panels. The rectangular panels also crowned some of the buildings within view. Nate wondered how much of the school’s power was generated by sunny days.

  Having attended an orientation a few days earlier, Nate already had a list of his classes along with a simple map. First up was history. Moving between gray walls toward a building at the back of campus, he saw a freshly buzzed head about his height, atop a stocky build.

  “Pigeon!” Nate called out.

  His friend turned and waited. “Good morning, Nate.”

  “You’re here!” Nate exclaimed. Pigeon’s mom had been pressuring him to enroll at Elm Lake private school. It was the swankiest school in the area, and Pigeon had been invited there with a scholarship.

  “I wanted to be in the same school as my friends,” Pigeon said.

  “Aren’t you missing a big opportunity?” Nate asked.

  “I already know how to learn,” Pigeon said. “I follow my interests, and I read a lot. It’s a lot harder to find good friends. I finally convinced my mom last night.”

  “Can I feel it?” Nate asked, nodding to Pigeon’s buzz cut.

  Pigeon bowed his head, and Nate rubbed his scalp with both hands. “It’s so fuzzy!”

  “Hey, guys,” Summer said from behind Nate.

  He turned around and was surprised at how much he had to crane his neck back to meet her eyes. She wore a white, knee-length skirt and a blue top. Her hair had some curl in it. She even had on a little makeup.

  “You’re a giant,” Nate said.

  She looked down at her wedge sandals. “My mom is trying to turn me into a poodle. These heels are so uncomfortable.”

  “You look great,” Pigeon said.

  “Thanks, but it isn’t really me,” Summer said. “Mom bought me some new clothes, so I feel a little obligated. Did you hear Zac Foster is in our school?”

  “The Foster Child? The YouTuber?” Nate asked. He had seen a few of his videos.

  “I would call him an influencer,” Pigeon said. “He started on YouTube, but now he’s on multiple platforms. He would have gone to Montrose, but all those sixth graders are coming here now.”

  “He’s so funny,” Summer said. “I hope we have classes with him!”

  The bell rang.

  “Five minutes,” Pigeon said. “Do you two know where you’re going?”

  “Yep,” Summer said. “See you at lunch.”

  “See you in English,” Pigeon said to Nate.

  “Cool,” Nate said. English was his only honors class.

  Pigeon took off, and Nate hurried to homeroom, excited to see what the day would bring.

  Chapter Two

  Zac

  Nate’s history classroom was walled with maps and posters of world monuments. He found a desk and looked around. He knew some of the kids near him, but none of his good friends were in the room.

  Leaning against a bookshelf in the corner, the teacher wore jeans, a pale green shirt, and a tie. He was a lean man with a small chin and hairy arms. After the bell, he walked to the front of the room and stared at the class until everyone fell silent.

  He opened with a question. “Have you ever offended someone and then later apologized? A common reply might sound like, ‘Hey, don’t worry about it—that’s ancient history.’ This response implies that the misdeed was irrelevant. To which I take mild offense, because this class is literally ancient history. And I am your teacher, Mr. Zimmerman.”

  “Good,” said the kid seated in front of Nate. “I won’t worry about it.”

  Muffled laughter percolated through the room.

  A faint smile bent Mr. Zimmerman’s lips. “Nobody has to worry about ancient history. Unless you want to pass this class. And unless you wish to use our shared human heritage to make sense of the present and prepare for the future.”

  “Why read history when you can write it?” the same kid said. He had brown hair and wore a checkered shirt and stylish jeans. He slouched back in his chair, perfectly at ease. He had a bracelet made of wooden and metal beads on his left wrist.

  “What is your name?” Mr. Zimmerman asked.

  “Zac Foster.”

  Several of the students took new interest in the kid, straining to see him.

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Zimmerman said. “Have you been writing history?”

  “Recording it more than writing it,” Zac said. “Sharing my life. Making people laugh.”

  “Videos can be fun,” Mr. Zimmerman said. “The civilizations we will study did not have the technology to make videos, but they left many other clues that enable us to decipher much about how they lived.”

  “How I live is no secret,” Zac inserted.

  Several students chuckled.

  “My kids enjoy your videos,” Mr. Zimmerman said. “A lot of the content seems like you narrating as you play video games.”