Free Ten by Gretchen McNeil Page B

its own solar power supply.”
    “And if the cable comes directly from the dish, it might still be working.” T.J. squeezed her shoulder. “Brilliant.”
    “Man,” Kumiko said, with a glance at Vivian. “I’m so glad Meg’s here.”
    “Whatever,” Vivian said.
    Meg could feel the press of bodies behind her as everyone clamored for a view of the screen. Her laptop rested on the shallow shelf of a bookcase, propped up against her knee. The network cable had been plugged in and Meg held her breath as she hit the power button, praying the battery had enough juice.
    Come on, dammit . It would be her luck that this was the one time her laptop was completely drained, but just as she was about to give up hope the green light came on, indicating life of some kind. Thank God.
    She felt a collective sigh of relief, including someone’s breath against her cheek. Not just someone. T.J. So close that she could have turned her face and their lips would have touched....
    Stop it . Of all the inappropriate times to think about kissing T.J., this had to be the worst.
    She forced her attention back to the computer screen. There was an agonizing moment as the rainbow pinwheel of doom blipped on, then the home screen loaded.
    “Awesome!” T.J. said.
    “Hurry up!” Vivian demanded. She was barely hanging on to the last threads of her cool. “Open the browser.”
    Meg bit her lip as she clicked on the browser icon. If this didn’t work, what the hell were they going do?
    “Oh my God!” Kumiko said. “Look!”
    A browser window opened to Meg’s homepage tabs. It worked! Her idea worked!
    “Let me do it,” Vivian said, pushing forward. “I’ll log into my email and—”
    Kumiko shouldered her back. “It’s Meg’s computer.”
    Right. Her computer. Meg quickly tabbed on the window for her email service. It was there, it was working. Most recent email was from early that morning—her mom, with the subject “Hope you’re having fun!” Meg bit her lip as she hit “compose email.” For some reason, seeing that email from her mom made her want to cry.
    “Who should we email?” Gunner said. “The police?”
    “Um,” Meg said, looking around. “I don’t have an email address for the police department.”
    “Email your parents first,” T.J. suggested. “Then we can find an emergency contact online.”
    Meg nodded and typed both of her parents’ names into the address box, then skipped right to the body of the email.
    “At Jessica Lawrence’s house on Henry Island. Long story. Been an accident. Phone’s out. Need help.”
    Her parents were going to go apeshit when they found out she’d lied to them, but at that moment, it was more important to get the police out to the island. She’d deal with her inevitable punishment later.
    With a shaky hand, she hit Send.
    “Come on,” T.J. said under his breath. Meg felt everyone lean closer to the laptop as if they were willing the email out into cyberspace, desperate to see the delivery confirmation screen.
    “Shit.”
    The word came from seven mouths all at once. The screen, which had been actively connected to the internet a split second before, now had gone blank. No internet connection established .
    So much for that.

TWELVE
    “WHAT HAPPENED?” VIVIAN SNAPPED. “IT WAS just working.”
    “Hit refresh,” Kumiko suggested.
    Meg was a step ahead of her, but each refresh only brought the same result: No internet connection established .
    “We must have lost the signal,” Meg said. “I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s not your fault,” T.J. said. “We wouldn’t have even thought of it if it weren’t for you.”
    “Dude, let me try,” Nathan said. Meg stepped aside and Nathan immediately started opening up network windows and connection diagnostic tools that she didn’t even know existed. “Sometimes maintaining a connection is tricky. If it’s working, I’ll figure it out.”
    Meg wasn’t exactly hopeful, but she appreciated Nathan’s enthusiasm