“To the sick bay with you, Alex,” Florence said. Alex glanced into the hospital ward, where Lani lay in a new bed next to her father’s, across from Claire Morning. Samheed stood by Lani’s side, holding her hand. Alex’s lips parted, and then he shook his head. “No way. No one else needs to witness my spew.” He tried to smile, but he could feel the heat coming to his skin and the uneasiness in his gut returning.

“You look flushed,” Meghan said. “Do you have a fever?” “Just tired. Promise.” Alex turned to Simber and put a hand on the cat’s neck. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at Florence. “Thank you,” he said to her. And then he looked at Meghan. “And thank you. I am going to bed. Simber, if you need me . . . you know how to reach me.” He shuffled blindly to the tube as sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Good night, Alex,” they said, each of them exchanging glances with the others, more than a little concerned.

He stepped into the tube, looking longingly at the steps he preferred to take, and with careful deliberation pressed the combination that would take him to his room. He leaned against the cool glass, the pain causing nausea, which prompted sweat to pour down his back. When he opened his eyes, he had reached his room.

Finally Alex could stop pretending to be the brave, strong leader of Artimé. His skin felt like it was on fire. He pushed himself upright, ripped his drenched shirt off, and staggered out of the tube as his room began to swirl around him. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the edge of the coffee table, heaving as the pain tore through his body and head. He gasped and groaned, his sweating hands slipping off the table and his arms slamming to the floor, jolting him. Every gasp for air felt like a knife to the back. He gave up trying to make it to the nearby couch, much less the bed, and melted to the floor as the world went black.

Clive stared, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. “Alex?” he said. He waited, and then he pounded his face against the blackboard, straining and pushing as hard as he could. “Alex,” he yelled, “I’m sorry! Please don’t die! Don’t die!”

But Alex didn’t move.

The Fourth Rescue

As Simber napped on his pedestal for the first time in days, he had a terrible dream about crashing into the sea and Alex calling out to him for help.

“Simber!” The cat startled awake, immediately alert. He looked at Florence. She stood on her pedestal as usual, but her eyes were closed and she was asleep. Perhaps he was imagining things. He sampled the air and leaped down to see if there was anything amiss.

“Simber!” he heard again, and he ran toward the voice, skidding over the marble floor to the dining room, where Oscar the blackboard called out to him.

“What is it?” Simber asked.

“It’s Alex. His blackboard, Clive, says Alex is dead on the

floor.” Simber froze. And then he turned on a dime and raced to the stairs, thundering up them in three strides and waking Florence in the process. She chased after him, having no idea what was happening.

Simber skidded to a stop on the balcony. “Can you see this hallway?” he asked, pointing to the boys’ hall.

“No,” she said.

“Get Samheed from the hospital warrrd and send him up here.” He turned and ran down the boys’ hallway, stopping at Alex’s room.

“Alex,” Simber growled. He listened. “Clive, can you open this doorrr?”

“No, I’m sorry!” Clive called.

Simber growled. He looked all around, and then he backed up. “Look out,” he called. He took a running start and slammed into the door, his shoulders and wings crashing through the walls on either side. Wood framing, the door, and chunks of the wall splintered across the room.

“Helllp!” Clive yelled. “Intruder!”

“I am the help, you dolt,” Simber said. He found Alex sprawled out on his side and nudged him, then pushed him over onto his back as pounding footsteps approached from the hallway and then came to an abrupt stop.

“Ho-lee cats,” whispered Samheed, looking at the mass destruction. “It looks like a hurricane hit.” He rushed over to Simber. “What happened? Is he okay?” He could hear doors opening up and down the hallway as sleepy students peered out to see what had caused the crash.

“He’s alive. I need you to tell everrrybody to get back inside theirrr rooms. Clive, tell theirrr blackboarrrds to call them in too. Say it’s forrr safety. Make something up.”

Clive nodded and disappeared.

“Are you bringing him downstairs? We’ll need another bed.”

“No,” Simber said decisively. “The head mage doesn’t ask forrr anything, but he cerrrtainly doesn’t need to be on display. I say he gets a prrrivate rrroom when he’s sick.” He growled to prove his point.

“I totally agree,” Samheed said, a little nervous.

“Help Clive clearrr the hall, and then you and Florrrence go sprrruce up Marrrcus’s aparrrtment. It’s time Alex lives wherrre he belongs.”

Samheed paled. The news of Mr. Today’s death was still so fresh.

Simber noticed his hesitation. “Errr, scrrratch that. Ask Florrrence to do that, then you monitorrr the halls. The boy needs some dignity and prrrivacy. Nobody needs to see him . . . like this.”

Samheed nodded, and in a flash he was gone.

Simber sat on his haunches and used a front paw to cradle Alex’s head and shoulders as he scooped the boy into his mouth. He waited a few minutes until Samheed returned at a full sprint.