Page 63 of The Most Dangerous Games

Hannah’s chest tightens.

“That’s not—” she starts.

“It is,” the host from the computer says, without inflection. “It is a Hebrew letter.”

“Sorry, Miss Wagner,” The Host says. “He’s right. But then, he always is. Somewhat like me.”

Hannah’s hands slide off the desk.

She falls back in her chair like somebody cut her strings.

Then her voice cracks, small and furious.

“But I was that close.”

“Yes,” The Host says. “You were.”

“You should actually be happy,” The Host continues.

“I lost,” Hannah manages. “When I was that close to winning.”

A pause. Letting it hurt.

“Now for the part you didn’t know you were playing.”

The room goes dead silent. Even Tipton stops moving.

Hannah hears The Host again, directed now not only at her.

“You should be pleased, Miss Wagner,” The Host says. “You have not been eliminated, as so many others who were just watching you are about to be.”

Hannah blinks.

Around the room, bodies tense. Heads turn. Eyes flick to red pendants under shirts.

Tipton explodes first.

“No one said anything about these being elimination games!” he yells.

“No one asked,” The Host responds calmly.

Tipton stops dead. Not angry anymore. His eyes move once across the room, taking inventory. Thirty. Not fifty. Not twenty. Thirty.

He says, almost pleasantly, “So it’s not about winning. It’s about how entertaining you are while you lose.”

Jack whispers to Alek and Wyatt.

“I feel like we’re back on the field in Ohio,” Jack says, “waiting to see whether or not we made the cut.”

“But we all just lost!” Tipton shouts.

“Yes,” The Host says. “Some of you simply lost . . . more.”

44.

They don’t get a long speech. They don’t get comfort. They don’t even get a real explanation.

The Host gives them a verdict, not a rationale.