“Didn’t you send them?” Tobias asks Charity before Guinevere can respond, pausing with his thumbs hovering over his phone screen. “As our student body president, you’re our answer to problems faced by the modern teenager: generative AI plagiarism, club treasurer embezzlement, surreptitious bathroom vaping…” He tilts his head, and the LEDs catch on his russet curls. “And you’re always organizing little bake sales and 5Ks and blood donation drives. This kind of event planning seems right up your alley.”

  Charity shakes her head, but the motion is more like a sharp snap; a clipped right-left that leaves no room for discussion. “I thought it was you.”

  “And Santo thought it was Malachi, and Guinevere thought it was Steffi, and Steffi thought it was Santo.” Tobias blinks, and I frown. His eyes look unfocused. “The point is, none of us are taking credit for organizing this. So why are we here?”

  It’s a good fucking question, especially when the invitation showing up in my mailbox means there’s someone out there who refuses to let sleeping dogs lie. Who knows that secrets won’t keep themselves.

  Slowly, we turn to look at Malachi, who freezes with another nacho halfway to his mouth. Guinevere points at him. “You’re in charge of reservations. You don’t like any of us anymore, especially with the ongoing lawsuit—”

  “Nah, that’s between our families,” Malachi says. “We’re chill. Besides, I’m not trying to create more work for myself. The only reason I’m here tonight is because Arsonist’s Revenge got booked.”

  “But you don’t know by whom?” Charity presses. She’s always been great at getting answers out of people—why isn’t the Stomp Out Cancer bake sale garnering more publicity, why didn’t we put up as many posters for her student body president reelection campaign as we promised, why didn’t all of BREAKOUT’s sprinklers go off on the night of the fire—and even Malachi isn’t immune to the beguiling capabilities of her inquisitive head tilt.

  He shrugs. “Prepaid gift card.”

  “Oh,” Santo says, suddenly staring at his cardstock invitation like it might burn him. “Weird.”

  A silence descends over the escape room lobby. Save for the buzzing OPEN sign plastered against the smiley-face-decaled window—and our collective breathing—everything is quiet. And I can picture the end of this moment so perfectly: Malachi shrugging. Charity worrying the strands of her freshwater pearl necklace. Guinevere stalking out through the EXIT doors. Tobias tucking his phone back into his pocket and nodding goodbye. Santo turning his back on me.

  It could be over so easily, this freak misunderstanding, this flame-eaten photograph, this already-unforming memory. I could watch everyone walk away; I could leave Friendship Springs without learning how the fire stared; I could be forced to stop clinging to the past I can’t remember. But then I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror behind our Game Master, where the same anxious, stomach-sick, worn-down version of myself that I’ve become in the past year stares back, and it hits me, here in this lobby with its glowing lights and its corny merchandise and its promise of the brainteasers I fell in love with because of Dad: If I allow myself to turn away from BREAKOUT now, nothing will change. I’ll get back in my duck-filled Jeep and I’ll choke down my burning questions about the fire and tomorrow I will walk across an elevated stage at the LeConte Center at 7:00 PM in Pigeon Forge knowing I robbed myself of the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get real answers.

  And I can’t let that happen, because I’m wearing Matteo Cesari’s leather trench coat, and the seven of us used to play monthly escape rooms together back when he was still alive, and I’m so tired of feeling lost without him.

  Before I can overthink it, I take out my phone again and scan the first QR code my camera latches on to. “What are you doing, Stephanie?” Guinevere hisses, eyeing my device as the waiver loads on my screen. But I fill out the first text box. Then the second. And the third, because I need to hold on to this feeling. I want to get closure. I’ve been baptized with tears and ash and plastered blood, and even if the details of the night that tore our friend group apart keep slipping through my fingers like smoke—even if secrets won’t keep themselves is a threat—I need to stay, because tonight is the night I’m going to find out how my best friend died.

  So I shrug, turn to face Guinevere, and say the words, knowing this is the first time we’ve all been back together since the fire killed Matt exactly a year ago: “I want to play the game.”

  yelp.com | Recommended Reviews: BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc.

  Located in Friendship Springs, TN | Have you been here?

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  STAY AWAY!

  Posted by Rob Whitefeather at 5:46 PM

  If I could give 0 stars I would. Distracted, unhelpful Game Master… extremely disorganized room… repetitive and malfunctioning puzzles… unsanitary bathroom… all in all, a terrible experience. AVOID THIS PLACE AT ALL COSTS!

  Wednesday, May 20, 2026 10:56 PM

  I can feel everyone looking at me. Their heated stares burn into my dead best friend’s coat, spiking my heart rate, but I force myself to keep my hands still as I scan the unfamiliar verbiage of the waiver. I’ve already filled out all the boxes at the bottom, mainly out of spite, but it seems like a good idea to read through the black-and-pink legal jargon before I hit SUBMIT. At any rate, this wording seems a lot more airtight than the document’s past versions.

  BREAKOUT ESCAPE ROOMS INCORPORATED

  Sevier County Plaza, Suite 263

  Friendship Springs, TN 37876

  PARTICIPANT AGREEMENT, WAIVER, AND RELEASE OF LIABILITY

  I hereby release and agree to hold BREAKOUT ESCAPE ROOMS INCORPORATED harmless from and waive on behalf of myself, my heirs, and any personal representatives any causes of action, claims, demands, damages, costs, expenses, and compensation for damage or loss to myself and/or property which may be caused by any connection with any services received from BREAKOUT ESCAPE ROOMS INCORPORATED. I understand this release discharges BREAKOUT ESCAPE ROOMS INCORPORATED from any liability or claim I, my heirs, or any personal representatives may have against the escape room with respect to any bodily injury, illness, medical treatment, property damage, or death which may arise from any services received from BREAKOUT ESCAPE ROOMS INCORPORATED.

  I CERTIFY I HAVE READ THIS DOCUMENT IN ITS ENTIRETY AND FULLY UNDERSTAND ITS CONTENT. I ACKNOWLEDGE THIS IS A RELEASE OF LIABILITY AND A CONTRACT AND I SIGN IT OF MY OWN FREE WILL.

  I glance up at Malachi. “Or death?” I question.

  He nods before taking another sip from his thermos; I catch a whiff of black coffee. “Covering our bases. You know how it is.”

  Do I? I read over the legalese a second time, my throat bobbing, and try not to let my nerves show. This boilerplate is new, probably because of the legal battle the James-Mays are still embroiled in with Illaria Cesari (and a few of our parents) over Matt’s alleged wrongful death, but its underlying meaning is clear: If anything happens while I’m locked inside the escape room, I can’t sue BREAKOUT. And neither can anyone else.

  God. Even though I’m furious that a four-by-six-inch piece of foil-stamped cardstock is all it took to bring us back together after twelve long months, there’s no turning back now. I need to be decisive, because after the ashes of last year’s fire settled and the six of us emerged from the ensuing media feeding frenzy with only our already-failing interpersonal relationships as casualties, the rest of my friend group was able to just… move on. Santo fled the country. Guinevere weaponized her identity as the grieving girlfriend to guilt her federal-judge father into sending her to bond with ponies and practice horseback, archery, and ax-throwing at a place called Wild Hearts Equine Therapy & Outdoor Sports. Charity incorporated the tragedy into her personal brand and won over $250,000 in scholarships from places like the Rotary Club, the CCHS financial aid office, and our local bank. Tobias channeled his energy into getting reinstated on the CCHS chess team before they promptly kicked him off again. Malachi churned out a series of @Mal.The.Reel.King videos inspired by the accident and skyrocketed his notoriety as a result.

  But my estranged friends remember what happened on the night of the fire. They know what went down in Wanderland on the night Matt died; I don’t. Despite my bimonthly hypnotherapy sessions with Call-Me-Diana, my traumatic brain injury can only surface warped, psychedelic, amnesia-fueled flashes: flickering Cheshire Cat smiles. Melting flamingo-shaped croquet mallets. Ticking oversize clocks that run backward until my dreams flood with flames and I wake up sweat-slicked, gasping for air, and convinced I smell smoke. So if I’m going to be in Friendship Springs tonight, then I’m going to re-create the circumstances of last year’s accident in the hopes of regaining my memories. I’m going to check a box agreeing that the system’s carefully generated cursive counts as my signature. And I’m going to hit SUBMIT on the waiver.

  Yes, I want to do the escape room. Again.

  “Stephanie, we shouldn’t play!” Guinevere snaps. On my phone screen, BREAKOUT’s hot-pink smiley face logo pops up with the words Thanks for helping us keep you safe! We look forward to welcoming you to your one-of-a-kind immersive escape experience. “If none of us are claiming responsibility for sending the invitations, then we have no idea who lured us here.”

  “Yeah. I’m, like, with Gee on this one?” Charity says, glancing at the laminated QR codes with her glossy lips puckered in slight distaste. “Going through with the game now seems… weird.”

  “Does it?” Tobias takes a step forward, coming into the pink-and-blue neon-sign light, and my breath catches at the dark bluish-purple bruise blooming around his left eye. Despite the fact that his early-life farm exposure should’ve led him to develop a robust immune system, Tobias has always had the constitution of a sickly Victorian child. As a result, his battered duffel contains more first aid supplies than the school nurse’s office, including (but not limited to!) an EpiPen, a bottle of Flonase, Band-Aids, medical gauze, and enough Tylenol to knock out a Clydesdale. But he’s not one for fistfights. So what the hell happened to him?

  “We’re already here,” Tobias continues before I can ask about his injury. “Clearly, we arrived intending to play the room whether or not we knew who sent the cards, so our uncertainty surrounding the organizer shouldn’t change our intentions now.”

  “It’s up to y’all.” Malachi takes another sip from his thermos, his gaze flicking between us. “I’ve set up Arsonist’s Revenge already, and I’m fine with running your game. But if you guys wanna call tonight off ’cause you’re freaked, then I’ll just need your deposit back.”

  I turn off my phone and pocket it, vindicated by the undercurrents of panic, frustration, and rage that’ve been pinballing through my veins since last May. I’m not certain voluntarily locking myself inside a room with a mélange of people who hate me will un-repress my memories, but at this point I’m out of options. To date, my knowledge of Matt’s death is encapsulated entirely by its corresponding Crime column in the Tennessee Star: Seven teenagers walked into an escape room a year ago. Only six walked out.

  Despite my many grievances with BREAKOUT, surrendering myself to tonight’s escape room is the only way to glean the truth. It’s why I forked over the necessary cash to the employee at the run-down twenty-four-hour gas station near my house with gritted teeth and drove twenty-eight miles to this ironically named town, despite the fact that my stash of saved tips from late-night Perfect Strike shifts is rapidly dwindling. It’s why I signed the waiver. It’s why I’m here, pathetically stumbling through talking to my ex-friends instead of my rubber duck collection. I’m so desperate to do this. I can’t move on until I understand.

  And besides, there’s nowhere else for me to go tonight, anyway.

  “It’s supposed to be for him,” I whisper. “That’s what the invitation said, right? An escape room in honor of Matteo Luca Cesari. He died a year ago today.” I swallow, looking at everyone scattered around the LED-lit lobby. “He’s been on my mind a lot lately. The accident and the fire and…” I blink back the tears threatening to well up in the back of my throat and start again. “The way I see it, we’ve been given a chance to honor his memory. His life. The kind of person—the kind of friend—he was, for the first time since he passed. So if we’re putting it to a vote, then I choose to stay. It’s what Matt would have wanted. And regardless of who sent us the cards, that’s why we’re here. Because it feels right to do this. For him.”

  I dig my nails into my palms to stave off the awkward silence gathering in BREAKOUT’s lobby. At the same time, though, I can’t help glancing at Santo. I hope that he, at least, understands why I want to go through with the game. It’s been a year of obfuscated facts, of wrongful death claims and sleazy lawyers, and regardless of how unsettled I personally am by the invitations, I can’t help but feel like they’re proof that there’s more to Matt’s death than most of Cedar Creek has been led to believe. They’re a sign.

  “Zamekova’s right,” Santo says after a beat, and my jaw unclenches at his vocal support. “Today’s been… awful. This whole week’s been awful, actually. I haven’t been eating. Or sleeping. My hair is falling out in clumps. Momma’s been so stressed with the job and her lawsuit”—here he throws an apologetic glance toward Malachi, who dips his head in acknowledgment—“that she’s barely at home, and even she’s noticed that I’m fucking falling apart.” He sighs. “You know, what the six of us went through last year… that kind of trauma doesn’t exactly make for a good study abroad icebreaker, regardless of how many depressed teenagers you meet in your Italian gothic architecture class. But when I got the invitation, I realized I didn’t go through the fire by myself. And even if we don’t talk anymore—even if we haven’t talked since my brother died—I’m glad I don’t have to spend the anniversary of the night I lost Matt alone.”

  In the glowing lights of the lobby, a heavier silence punctuates his words. But this time, I notice tears free-falling down Charity’s sharp cheeks. Malachi’s lips are trembling. Guinevere’s balled her manicured hands into fists, and even Tobias looks touched.

  Santo nods at me across the room, and a rush of gratitude floods me. There, his dark gaze seems to say. Sixty minutes to figure out what the rest of our friends are hiding about my twin brother’s death.

  Ha. Now I know I’m imagining things. Thank you, TBI-induced hallucinations.

  “Wow,” Charity breathes, wiping her mascara trails with fluttering fingers. “Santo, that speech was, like, beautiful? Maybe you should be on stage at our graduation tomorrow.”

  Next to her, Tobias hums in careful agreement. “You’re right,” he tells Santo. “The anniversary effect exacerbates the emotions associated with grief. For me, the invitation came at the right time. I’d like to do this for Matt, too.”

  “Fine,” Guinevere snarls, not to be outdone. “Then I guess we’re playing.”

  “Excellent,” Malachi says, coming out from behind the counter. In addition to the cheese glob, nacho crumbs litter the collar of his embroidered pink-and-black company polo. “Briefing Room time.”

  We follow him into the enclosed space one by one, where our collective body heat immediately mixes into another nauseating combination of smells. It’s dark in here, too. Apart from a row of LED-strip-lined lockers sitting against the wall, the Briefing Room has no real light source. Eerie.

  Charity wastes no time in claiming the crushed velvet love seat. Tobias slides onto the other, back to fervently typing, and Santo and Guinevere settle on opposite ends of the three-person couch. Malachi remains standing. The steel HVAC above us rattles as I squeeze into the only spot left, which is between my dead best friend’s twin brother and my dead best friend’s girlfriend. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “All right,” Malachi says brightly. “To begin, welcome to BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Incorporated. My name is Malachi James-May, obviously, and I’ll be running your game tonight.”

  “Also obviously.” Santo smiles.

  I press my thighs together and attempt one of my four-six-eight breathing exercises from hypnotherapy, flooding my nostrils with bougainvillea and white sage and charring meat.

  Growing up, Randall James and Taliyah May were pillars of our community. Their Black-owned business sponsored everything from elementary school musicals to junior prom car wash fundraisers; their hot-pink smiley face logo is plastered across the backs of 95 percent of the CCHS-affiliated T-shirts I own. Once their business in Cedar Creek burned down, though, they stopped being able to donate to events as often. The PTA iced them out, their local fanbase dwindled, and Mal picked up more shifts to make up for the Game Masters who quit their jobs in solidarity—or protest—after the lawsuit was filed.

  But even though Malachi’s parents own BREAKOUT, he’s not supposed to be running a game this late by himself. And something about this feels wrong even now—us, back at BREAKOUT for the first time since the accident. Him, standing in front of us with his signature toothy grin. The weight of the ongoing lawsuit settling around the Briefing Room’s empty spaces.

  “Here at BREAKOUT,” Malachi continues, “we strive for an immersive escape game experience. That being said, too much immersion can be costly—so please do not jump, pull on, or climb objects within the room. Remember: If it takes more than two fingers of force, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.” He glances at Tobias. “You also won’t need any outside equipment while you’re in the escape room. No pocket screwdrivers, no bolt cutters, and especially no Google. In fact, I’m going to ask y’all for your phones before we enter, so that BREAKOUT can keep things fair for our future players.” At this, Malachi opens the leftmost locker and slides out the plastic bin within expectantly. “Come on,” he coaxes when none of us move. “You know the rules. We can’t have you taking photos or recording audio inside.”