The countdown timer in the corner of my vision read 64:02.

  We’d been in the simulation for almost ten hours. If we were still in Florida, it would be midnight by now or close to it.

  No wonder I was so tired. Well, that, and the day spent battling bougainvillea and monsters. Exhaustion had set in hours ago; only adrenaline was keeping me upright.

  But even in whatever time zone this was, it was starting to get late. Not late-late, but the air held a hint of afternoon chill that suggested we were running out of daytime, artificial or otherwise.

  We couldn’t spend the night here. A goblin had been arriving in the clearing every hour on the quarter hour, as regular as a murderous cuckoo clock.

  Jack said there must be a spawn point nearby. I was guessing I’d stumbled onto it earlier and cleared out what should have been more serious invasions. Instead of sixteen goblins at once and then a steady trickle of singletons, maybe three or four goblins should have been attacking us every hour?

  That would have felt more reasonable for a challenge scenario, because let’s face it: without Warden’s Edge, Jack and I would both have been dead hours ago.

  The shovel was resting right next to me. I touched the handle for a second, not quite stroking it. Definitely my post-apocalyptic security blanket.

  My gaze fell on Zelda, sprawled beside me, eyes closed, but with her squeaky ball still clamped in her jaws. I touched her fur, but in her current zonked-out state, she didn’t even twitch an ear.

  She was exhausted, too. Well, and she should be. She’d definitely done her share.

  Best we could figure, while I’d been gone and Jack was unconscious, she’d been taking care of the goblins as they arrived, then looting the bodies. From the three goblins we’d actually seen, she’d gotten a chicken strip, a small mound of loose kibble, and that ChuckIt squeaky ball. The enormous bone must have been from an earlier incursion.

  It was going to be a long, long night if someone had to stay awake for every goblin.

  We’d been trying to come up with some kind of plan, which for Jack had mostly meant convincing me to level up. I hadn’t had any better ideas. He wasn’t dying now, but he wasn’t in great shape to go wandering through the forest looking for better shelter, either.

  In a fantasy world, we’d climb into one of the trees for the night.

  In this one—even though, technically, it was a fantasy world—there was no way.

  Now that I’d been sitting for a while, my knee wasn’t throbbing as badly, but it wasn’t going to let me climb anything higher than a coffee table. And even if I could maybe make it on my own, there was no way I could do it while carrying Zelda. And no way I was leaving her on the ground by herself, of course.

  I glanced at the sky. Still not dark, but we couldn’t have much longer.

  “I’m going to skip ahead to the leveling part.”

  “Yeah, not a bad idea,” Jack said, following my gaze. “Nothing you can really do with skills right now, anyway.”

  I patted my belt pouch. “I did pick up a skill book earlier that I didn’t use. Trapping. Not quite as good as ‘making a goblin-proof shelter out of loose branches and leaves,’ but it might come in handy eventually.”

  “Nice.” Jack closed his eyes again, leaning against his tree trunk. He looked even more exhausted than I felt.

  I gave the clearing one last all-encompassing glance—no one was going to be attacking us while Zelda and Jack napped and I was distracted, right? And then I turned my attention to that conversational bubble icon in the weird little messages interface in my head.

  I’d left off at the line about temporal displacement, so that was where I started.

  Duration: 72 hours (Temporal displacement protocol active.)

  Honestly, I still didn’t understand how anyone was supposed to know what that meant, but whatever.

  The next message read:

  Congratulations!

  You have successfully neutralized a higher-level attacker (Jack Francis, Level 2) using their own fireball.

  XP Awarded: 240

  Bonus: Impressive use of the “let them hit themselves” strategy. +50 XP

  I laughed aloud.

  It was relief, in a way, not amusement. Not relief that I was getting points for fighting another human being, but because I didn’t have to kill him to win. The thought of living in a world where the strongest people were the ones who found killing easiest was… well, disheartening. I was glad to see there might be other paths to success.

  The next message was another congratulations. This one said:

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Congratulations!

  You’ve earned enough experience to advance to Level 1.

  At Level 1, you will be able to choose a class and your first ability. These choices are an opportunity for you to select a direction for your future, as well as improve your viability percentage and enhance your chances of survival. Please choose carefully!

  Reply C to confirm level advancement.

  I took a breath. Well, there it was. My opportunity to let the creepy Santa Claus modify my brain.

  I’m sure you will be shocked, nay, astounded, to learn that I did not immediately reply by thinking, “C.”

  Despite the time pressure, despite the nighttime shelter conundrum, despite the fact that I knew—knew!—that I had no choice, I just wasn’t quite ready.

  So I kept scrolling.

  Congratulations!

  You’ve earned enough experience to advance to Level 2.

  Reply C to confirm level advancement.

  Then:

  Goblin Level 1 killed, 27 XP.

  Goblin Level 1 killed, 28 XP.

  Goblin Level 1 killed, 27 XP.

  Goblin Level 2 killed, 60 XP.

  Goblin Level 1 killed, 28 XP.

  Goblin Level 2 killed, 60 XP.

  Two level 1 goblins were worth slightly less than one level 2 goblin. That was interesting, if odd. I had no idea how the system was calculating the numbers.

  It looked like that first slew of goblins had been about evenly split between the first and second levels. I was maybe halfway through the list when I got another Congratulations, this time for reaching level 3, and the last goblin, a level 2 for 60 points, got me my Congratulations for reaching level 4.

  The message for level 4 was a little different. Level 3 had been exactly the same as 2, just a different number. Level 4, though, read:

  Congratulations!

  You have earned enough experience to advance to Level 4.

  [ALERT: Unclaimed class and ability selection detected.]

  Please note: Class and ability selection remain pending from previous level advancements. These choices are opportunities, designed to improve your viability percentage and enhance your chances of survival.

  Failing to select a class or an ability is not advised. Please complete pending selections at your earliest convenience.

  Reply C to confirm level advancement.

  I was amused. Maybe it was just me, but it sounded like creepy Santa Claus was feeling a little peeved at my lack of appreciation. Not that annoying the System was a good idea, but… well, I’d just get through the rest of these messages first.

  I expected the next one to be another goblin kill. It wasn’t.

  Instead a lengthy lists of items scrolled up.

  Loot acquired: Beef jerky, Kirkland brand. Mild spice. Relieves hunger. Good until next apocalypse.

  Loot acquired: Socks. Gray. Clean, warm, and reinforced at the toe. Bonus: +1 Endurance while worn.

  Loot acquired: Protein bar, chocolate peanut crunch. Temporarily relieves hunger.

  I scrolled through them, faster and faster. The water bottle and the sunglasses were special, of course, but so were the socks, and so was the duct tape.

  It was an endless roll of duct tape, which was impossible, right? But if the water bottle could have endless water, why couldn’t the tape last forever, too? I was tempted to immediately move it into a quick-access slot on my K9 companion pouch, just to make sure I wouldn’t lose it. Endless duct tape just raised such interesting possibilities. Could we build a shelter out of duct tape and tree trunks?

  After the loot, the goblin kill notices started popping up again.

  Goblin X Level 3 killed, 97 XP.

  Goblin X Level 3 killed, 98 XP.

  Goblin Patroller Level 4 killed, 140 XP.

  Then more loot—the book, the wire, the gum drops—then another goblin.

  Goblin Warrior Level 8 killed, 360 XP.

  And then another level up notice. This time it looked like the System was actually paying attention.

  Congratulations!

  You have earned enough experience to advance to Level 5.

  [ALERT: Unclaimed class and ability selection detected.]

  [ALERT, ALERT, ALERT: Unclaimed class and ability selection detected.]

  Examining candidate: Olivia Thorne, First Defender.

  Assessing initial responses.

  Assessing prior interactions.

  Assessing combat behaviors.

  Assessing participant relationships.

  Assessing resource management.

  Assessing system adaptation.

  Detecting anomalous participant behavior: standard progression path terminated.

  Class selection failed.

  Class ability selection failed.

  Revoking standard class options.

  Attribute allocation for Levels 1–4 determined.

  Further growth denied until level advancement confirmed.

  Please confirm level advancement at earliest possible convenience.

  My heart stopped beating.

  My face had that feeling where maybe I’d turned beet red or maybe I’d gone deathly pale or maybe I was switching back and forth between the two states. I didn’t really know, and it didn’t matter.

  I swallowed.

  I sort of thought this might be a moment to throw up—except no way was I giving up the measly number of calories in my stomach. That thought brought me back to myself, and my heart started beating again.

  Okay, it had never really stopped. I wasn’t dead. It was just the closest I’d ever come to a panic attack. Honestly, panic attacks were not my thing. I was a dissociation kind of girl.

  I randomly wondered what my dissociation skill number was. I bet it was good.

  And then I braced myself. “Um, Jack?”

  He opened his eyes. “Yeah? Did you get something good?”

  “I think I screwed up,” I admitted miserably.

  He leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “It says I failed my class options, and—”

  “Read me the whole thing,” he interrupted. “Every word.”

  I did as ordered, stumbling a little over “standard progression path terminated.” It just sounded so bad.

  I’ve always suspected that nine out of ten kids have a moment in high school when they realize they’re not normal. Like, most people aren’t normal. Most people don’t think they’re normal. Most people look at everyone around them and assume those people are normal, not realizing everyone else is doing the exact same thing.

  And yet, we all kind of wish we were normal.

  Maybe because it looks easy.

  Learning that my standard progression path had been terminated was like having a guidance counselor slap a sticker on my head that said, “Weird kid. Never gonna make it in the real world.”

  Jack didn’t say anything for a minute. Just looked at me, thinking.

  “Did you level up?”

  “Um…” I looked at the messages window. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, so maybe you should do that.”

  I nodded, a quick dip of my head. My hand drifted over to Zelda’s warm ears. She was still totally crashed out, but she squirmed a little closer to me. I closed my eyes for a second, feeling her warmth under my hand and not thinking—not remotely thinking, not all thinking—that my dog might die if I’d screwed this up.

  And then I whispered, “Confirm level advancement.”