I don’t speak until we’re back in the car. I’m in front this time, next to Theo, whose hands are clenched on the steering wheel so tightly that it amazes me he can even turn it. “Why are the credit cards failing?” I ask in a voice so small even I can barely hear it.

“They’re not failing. Or at least I don’t think they are,” Theo says. “But with no phone lines or internet, they can’t make a connection with the banks, so nobody can charge anything.”

“And this is happening all over Austin?” I’m horrified.

“I’m pretty sure it’s happening all over the country.”

“So there’s no money?” Emily asks incredulously. “Anywhere?”

“Oh, there’s money.” Theo shoves a hand into his hair, and this time it doesn’t fall back into place. I take it as a marker of how upset he is that he doesn’t even notice. “But people can’t get to it. At least not without actually going into a bank. And it’s eight-thirty on a Wednesday evening—that’s so not going to happen.”

“Oh my God.” I slump back against my seat and bury my head in my hands. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

This can’t be happening. This just flat-out can’t be happening.

But as we head through the quaint little shopping district, I realize it is. People are everywhere—in the stores, on the streets, in loose groups on every corner and outside every shop. They look angry, confused, panicked, distraught—all of the things I’m feeling but don’t know how to express.

Theo flips on the radio. It’s tuned to the alternative station, but he quickly presses the scan button. Nobody says anything as the radio plays a few disjointed seconds from each station, but then there’s really nothing to say. Nothing good, anyway.

Finally, the radio hits on someone speaking and Theo presses the button to keep it there. It’s a news station and the commentator is talking about today’s communication collapse as if it really is the end of the world.

“The internet is down in every city and state in America. It’s down in Europe and Asia and Africa and South America and even Australia, crippled to the point of total and complete uselessness by the Zero Day worm.

“Phone systems are down. Satellites are failing. The digital networks we use for our cell phones are collapsing in places as far flung as Malaysia and Norway even as I’m saying this. Control systems for everything from assembly lines at the Oreo cookie plant to systems that regulate air traffic control are grinding to a halt.”

“The streets are filling up with preachers screaming that the end of the world is here while thousands of people are at home, playing a game created by the same person who caused all of this in the hopes of making things return to normal. I don’t understand what’s happening here. I’m not sure anyone does.

“The Pentagon is calling it cyber warfare and Homeland Security promises they have their best agents at work trying to track down the ‘evil genius’who created this. But is that too little, too late? The internet is built to withstand nuclear war, people, but not a worm? It’s crazy. So what is going on and how on earth are we going to fix something that we never thought could ever break? That’s what I’ll be talking about after this commercial break.”

The question hangs in the air for one second, two, before the airwaves are taken over by a commercial for a local oil change place. I barely hear the cheerful jingle as it plays—I’m too busy straining to comprehend everything the commentator said. But I can’t. My brain is on the verge of exploding.

The others are talking, a vague tinge of horror underlying everything they say, but again I can’t bring myself to listen. It’s just too much.

I think of my mother, in Alaska. Wonder what she’s thinking—and if she’s worried about me. Realize that I’m worried about her—how is she going to get home from Alaska if the worm has taken out air traffic control? It’s already started to snow up there, I think. How can she drive in those conditions? And where will she get a car? How will she pay for it?

Just that easily, panic sets in.

This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening. It’s my new mantra, broken up only occasionally by one more, overriding thought.

It is happening.

But how? Why?

Aren’t there fail safes for this kind of stuff? Government security that stops things from getting this bad? And if even that security has failed … what are we going to do? How are we going to live?

I can’t breathe.

My chest burns and my heart feels like it’s going to explode.

My whole body is tense, shaky, like I’m in the middle of a major caffeine rush and I’m having a difficult time seeing. I blink my eyes a few times and eventually my vision clears. That’s when it hits me. I’m crying.

But I never cry. I gave up the habit right after my dad left and my mom screamed at me for sniveling about missing him. She told me tears were useless and didn’t change anything. At first, it didn’t matter, I couldn’t stop. But weeks passed and once I realized she was right—that no amount of tears were going to bring my dad back—I simply dried up.

I’m not dry now. I lift a trembling hand to my face, feel the water slowly rolling down my cheek.

What are we supposed to do now, I wonder? What can we do?

The tears continue to spill over as Theo negotiates the streets. I try to be quiet about it, take shallow breaths from my mouth and don’t sniff at all, but somehow Theo knows. He reaches over, rubs my leg in a way that I know is meant to be comforting. But it’s not. It’s just more proof that things are so not what they seem. What they should be. Because in the real world, there’s no way preppy, do-gooder Theo would ever have anything to do with me. Or me with him.

The thought depresses me further and I pull my leg away. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves his hand back to the steering wheel, which he’s back to squeezing until his knuckles turn white.

It’s finally gotten dark and I stare straight ahead at the green light shining like a beacon directly in front of us. The trick is to concentrate on the small stuff, I tell myself. On the things that are right in front of me.

Electricity is still working. That’s a good thing, right.? And I’m no longer alone. Homeland Security is on this thing, and so are some of the best computer security people in the country—people like Emily’s dad, who—

A huge delivery truck comes barreling towards us. Theo brakes, but it’s too late. It plows straight into us—directly into the right, front corner panel of the Range Rover.