Chapter 7.
They stand in a mowed-down cornfield—flat stalks, torn earth, the sweet-rotten smell of husks. A thousand of them. Men and women from all over the world, packed shoulder to shoulder like they’ve been poured into this place, surrounded by what feels like almost as many red tents.
Too many to count at first glance. Identical. Clean. The red is too bright. Too intentional. The color of a warning. One you can touch.
As soon as they’d arrived at the field, they’d all been given a number. A guard snapped a thin black wristband onto each of them. “For safety,” he said. It didn’t feel like safety.
There are armed guards, dressed in black, carrying what look to be military-style rifles, ringing the field—disciplined, ready.
Not quite aiming. Not quite relaxed, either.
There’s no shouting, no barking orders. They don’t look like men who expect trouble.
They look like men who’ve already been told what trouble will look like, and exactly how fast it ends.
No one knows what’s inside the tents.
And why the guards?
Since arriving here in Ohio the day before, in a place somewhere between Cleveland and Cincinnati, somewhere that refuses to resolve into a real place on any map, no one has been allowed inside the tents or even been allowed to get close to them.
The letter promised no cameras. The lenses above the tents disagreed—quiet, mounted high, watching everything. And once Hannah Wagner notices them, she can’t stop noticing the way the lenses seem to tilt. Not track everyone—just some.
They were ordered to turn over their phones—told they’d get them back after the first test. They’d also signed paperwork—stacks of it, clipped tight, meant to overwhelm. The title page called it a humanitarian resilience assessment. Nobody smiled at that.
This diverse collection of people of all ages has been flown here from their various countries, not knowing anything about what will be in store for them except what Jimmy described in his invitation letter. They know nothing about the games. Or where they’ll play out.
For now, they’re all milling around trying to understand what the numbers they’ve been given signify. A thousand nervous patterns in one tight space. People whisper in different languages. Some pray. Some pace. Some stand too still.
Wyatt Jordan wonders why there is a need for armed guards in this field.
“Are those men there to protect us?” Hannah Wagner asks him.
She’s standing beside Alek—tall, Eastern European, calm in a way that feels practiced. Wyatt can’t tell if Alek is brave or just tired of being afraid.
“But from who?” he says. “Or maybe a better question is—from what?”
There is a man standing directly in front of him, one who’s only introduced himself as Jack, a hard-looking man with a southern drawl, tattoos on arms that look like the ink was burned into him along with his tan.
Jack follows Wyatt’s gaze to the rifles. Doesn’t flinch. He turns to Wyatt and says, “Possible they’re worried they might have to protect us from each other.”
Wyatt almost laughs—then doesn’t. Because the idea lands.
“It’s not that at all,” Wyatt hears from behind him.
They all turn around.
“Hi,” a tall young man says and smiles broadly. “I’m Jimmy.”
“No way!” Wyatt exclaims, because some part of him is still eight years old and watching a video where someone gives away a house like it’s nothing.
“Way,” Jimmy says and puts out his hand to shake. “And you’re Wyatt Jordan.”