Free Awoken (The Lucidites Book 1) by Sarah Noffke

straight back to my room. A few pairs of eyes try to draw me in, but I hastily look away and continue my retreat. It isn’t that I’m aimed at performing well on the last task as much as I can’t shake an uneasy feeling in my stomach. It’s a feeling I get every time I look at Trey. He’s always holding something back, and it makes my insides twist uncomfortably.
    When I return to my bunk, I find the card with my results from the day’s tasks. It’s in a dark brown envelope with a red seal. I open it at once and pull out the card. It reads:
     
    Roya Stark:
    Task 1: Ganzfeld – Pass – 100%
    Task 2: PK Party – Fail – 0%
    Task 3: Calisthenics – Fail – 45%
    Task 4: Kung Fu – Pass – 88%
     
    One hundred percent on the first task is absurd, but the next two are much more believable. With scores like these, I’ll be given accolades and then sent home to live out my summer in the quiet calm of Bob and Steve’s house.
    Now all I need to do is finish the last task and then I’ll snuggle up in that chair on their deck, just as I dreamed. I pull the covers over my head, as I did the night before, and work at slowing down my breathing. When the time comes I see a sign in my head that says RS 300. I know this is where I must go.
     
     

Chapter Nine
    T he tunnel is short this time. Within seconds it spits me out into a poorly lit room. It isn’t really a room as much as a large closet. Junk is piled everywhere, on tables and shelves. Luckily a cramped walkway allows for navigation through the clutter.
    What in the hell am I supposed to do in here?
    The light overhead provides hardly any visibility. I squint through the darkness, and with relief find a floor lamp pushed in the corner. After one long pull on the brass chain, bright light fills the small space. I notice three things all at once: a chalkboard, a security camera, and an hourglass.
    On the far wall hangs the chalkboard. It reads, “Find object of most importance.”
    The tiny room is literally filled to the brim with hundreds of objects—books, jewelry, clothes, electronics, and boxes. From the ceiling hang dried herbs. On a shelf sits a large plate of armor and a helmet. The floor is littered with shards of broken mirror and nutshells. Was this a riddle or a joke?
    The security camera hangs down a few inches from the ceiling in the far corner. Its red light flashes at me disapprovingly. I try to ignore the camera, pretending it doesn’t exist.
    I steal a glance at the hourglass, which sits teetering high on a stack of books. What!? It’s almost empty. I gape at it in disbelief. Oh no , I’ve lost before I even had a chance to try . This isn’t the way I want to go down, especially with a camera blatantly recording my every move of failure. The sand filters through the narrow neck, piling up higher and higher.
    Instantly struck by an idea, I press my eyelids together trying to clear my mind. It’s hard to block out the bright light from the lamp or the sound of my pulse racing in my head. Taking a deep breath, I focus on only one thing. Suddenly I’m in the tunnel again. The wind surges past me. All around me. I’m falling, like I did the night before. Luckily this only lasts for a brief moment before it deposits me back into the cramped closet. Immediately I pull the chain on the lamp, sending light to every inch of the room. The hourglass is full. Sixty minutes remaining, or five million granules of sand. I’d once read that this was the approximate amount in an hourglass. I had a thing for knowing and seeing useless stuff.
    The camera hovers overhead, spying—making me doubt every move. I guess there are forty-nine other rooms just like this, with forty-nine contenders hunting around just like I am. My gosh, how big is this place? How does the world not know about it? Now the camera watches as I shake my head. Maybe the person watching me somewhere in the Institute thinks it’s because I’m baffled by the random contents of the box