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From behind the barrier, I hear her soft chuckle.
“I knew you’d go for that shield.”
I could kill her right now. Not inHalo—in real life.
When I spawn again, I hunt for Sabrina with a fury I’ve never known. I abandon my teammates to their fate, searching the map for the one and only person I want to see. Finally, I spot her in my peripheral, but I don’t turn my character toward her. I keep running on a straight axis like I have no idea she’s there.
As soon as we reach a junction point, I double back. Sabrina throws her grenades where I should have been.
When I run up behind her, she’s already got her gun up, waiting for me to round the corner, thinking she’s gonna shoot me in the face.
“Looking for someone?” I chortle, hitting her in the back and killing her instantly.
Before she can respawn, the game ends, 50-46. Sabrina’s team wins.
She pokes her head around the barrier, eyes blazing with fury, no hint of celebration on her face.
“Again,” she demands.
“Only if we play together.”
She pauses, considering.
“Alright.”
The game that follows is the most enjoyable round ofHaloI’ve ever played. Now that I don’t have to worry about Sabrina murdering me, it’s Christmas Day. We snatch up every super-weapon, raining terror on the opposing team, killing everyone in sight like we’re invincible and they’re standing still.
Her play is so elegant that I have to stop for a moment just to observe. I’m watching a symphony composed on screen in front of me. Sabrina tracks the other team, triangulating with me, running to where she thinks the other players will respawn before they even appear, killing them before they can look around.
She uses her weapons in a cascade, swapping through one after another for maximum efficiency and speed. She memorizes the map, taking shortcuts, popping up where you’d least expect her.
Most of all, it’s a fucking clinic of headshots. If you miss a headshot you get nothing, so a smart gamer starts at the chest and works up to the head. Sabrina is headshots ONLY. She misses on occasion, but her accuracy is so high that her total points double anyone on the opposing team.
She’s better than me.
I don’t like to admit that, and I sure as fuck don’t say it lightly. But she’s a little more talented atHalo, and maybe even just a little bit smarter than me.
When we lay our controllers down, Sabrina turns, face flushed in triumph.
“So?” she says. “What do you think?”
“I think I always want you on my team.”
* * *
13
SABRINA
We’re eating dinner on the Petrovs’ back deck, the only dinner we’ve all eaten together, and probably the only one we will. Someone or other is always absent at mealtimes, and soon I leave.
Adrik generally contrives to sit near me. Tonight, through Freya’s insistence on an immediate refill of ice, I’ve ended up next to Ivan, with Adrik across the table and two seats down.
The table groans under the weight of a feast cooked by Timo, who used to be one of Ivan’sbratoks,but has graduated to the position of head chef via an extensive education culled fromPitmastersandThe Great British Bake-off.
Tonight he’s dazzling us with smoked tri-tip and a salad made of ripe peaches and candied hazelnuts. Dominik fills our glasses with shiraz. Freya carries in a browned and braided loaf of challah, which Zima seizes before she’s even set down the platter.
“You made this?” he asks Freya, tearing off a chunk of bread.
