Game Over Read Free Page B

of the fight, forbid him to return to the Realm. Rick’s father—the physicist code-named “Traveler”—had guessed the truth and was looking for a cure. In the meantime, Rick could only hope the symptoms would pass and he would recover over time.
    For the moment, anyway, the throbbing pain inside his head was beginning to recede a little. Rick thought he might be able to get up, wash up, get dressed, go outside, and join Mom and Raider for breakfast.
    He began to lower his hands from his head . . . And as he did, his mouth opened and he stopped breathing as a new sickness of fear filled him.
    â€œWhat?” he whispered. “What???”
    His wrist! His right wrist! There were marks on it. Four lines of red, with purple bruising already staining the skin around them.
    The second he saw them, Rick knew what those marks were. He remembered the dead Boar Soldier in his dream, the one who had grabbed him, the one who had torn his flesh as he broke free of its grip . . .
    Those were its marks. Its claw marks on Rick’s wrist.
    Rick touched the marks with his fingertips. He felt the ridges of his scraped flesh. He felt the pain. It was impossible but true: The marks were there. They were real.
    And this was no dream!

3. ARCANE HEARTS
    RICK ALWAYS TRIED to show a cheerful face to his brother. Nine-year-old Raider was so relentlessly upbeat and energetic himself that Rick simply didn’t have the heart to bring him down. The kid had a beaming, freckled, pie plate of a face, with dark hair spilling sloppily down over his forehead, and a mouth that never seemed to stop moving—especially now, as he ate and yammered at the same time.
    â€œSo if I get the new box for Christmas, I’m thinking we should be able to spend about a week just totally destroying the latest Luigi Haunted House, which is supposed to be completely epic, and I read in Game Master that they may even reboot the old Mario Newsman series, which would be awesome times ten, and then we could . . .”
    This went on and on as Raider sat at the breakfast table and shoveled cereal into his maw, somehow managing to talk, chew, and swallow all at once without ever interrupting one to do the other.
    Rick sat across from him, moving his fork listlessly through the scrambled eggs on his plate. He was tryingto stop thinking about those scratch marks on his arm. Those scratch marks hidden underneath his sweatshirt sleeve. Those impossible scratch marks. From a living dead Boar Soldier. Who couldn’t exist outside the Realm. Who had only been in a dream. Who had left marks on his arm . . .
    He wasn’t doing a very good job of not thinking about it.
    His mom was standing at the sink, the morning light from the window turning her straw-colored hair into a kind of Mom Halo. She was rinsing the dishes off to put in the dishwasher and had her back to the table. But now and then she would glance over her shoulder at Rick and smile a little at the way he patiently absorbed Raider’s constant chatter. This time, though, when she looked back, she saw Rick toying with his food and silently lifted her chin at his plate: Eat something.
    Rick took a forkful of eggs and stuck it in his mouth, swallowing without tasting it, for her sake. But the sight of those marks on his arm . . . It had killed his appetite. The Boar Soldier was dead. He was in a dream! How could he leave scratches on his wrist? How could it happen? What could it mean?
    He had to talk to his dad. His dad was the only person who might have some clue what was happening.
    He quickly swallowed a few more forkfuls of eggs, then pushed back his chair and got up from the table. Raider was still talking. Rick thumped him on top of the head with his fist, thump, thump, thump.
    â€œYo. Earth to Raider. I gotta go save the world. Hold that thought.”
    The idea that Raider could hold that, or any, thought without releasing it through his mouth was ridiculous. But Rick knew he