The red light from the treeline wasn't the sun. It was the collective gaze of a thousand mechanical eyes, a shimmering, scarlet curtain that drew tighter with every passing second. The humming grew from a vibration in the floorboards to a roar that rattled the very teeth in my head.
"Choose, Grace!" Silas shouted over the mechanical swarm. "The drones are slaved to that chip. Every second it sits on that table, you’re painting a bullseye on this cabin!"
I looked at Silas—this man who was a copy of a ghost—and then at Ethan. Ethan was struggling to his feet, his hands white-knuckled on the arms of the chair. He looked at the chip, pulsing its dying red light on the table, and then at Florence.
"Go with him," Ethan rasped.
"No," I said, the word snapping out like a whip. "We don't split
