Chapter 0226


    Abby


    Five minutes feels like an eternity. I pace Karl’s kitchen as he quickly gets ready in the other room, not


    even taking a moment to take in the fact that this is Karl’s apartment, and I’m here for the first time


    ever. The whole ce is awash with his scent in an almost intoxicating way, the leather chairs and brick


    walls a perfect representation of his taste: dark, understated, and professional.


    Finally, after what feels like hours, Karl finally steps out of his room. Surprisingly, despite the time


    crunch, he looks… good.


    His hair isbed neatly, and he’s wearing a professional button-down shirt with ck cks and a


    pair of loafers. Somehow, even in his haste, he always manages to look put-together. I wish I could say


    the same; I feel like a trainwreck right now.


    However, as he puts on his blue surgical mask, I nce at the clock. My eyes widen in horror.


    “Oh my god, we have only fifteen minutes to make it!” I exim, my throat feeling dry from the hectic


    morning.


    “We’ll make it, Abby. Trust me,” he says, his words muffled behind the mask.


    I swallow. “We have to run to the subway. Maybe we can still—”


    Karl holds up his car keys with a chuckle that says he has everything under control. The keys jingle


    against each other as he wiggles them back and forth. “Who needs a subway when you have four


    wheels?” he asks.


    “Drive? Through morning city traffic?” My voice leaps an octave. “Karl, we’d be stuck forever! We’re not


    making it if we drive. We’re better off on foot.”


    He gives me a look that I’ve seen so many times before. It’s his ‘trust me, I got this’ look. “Just trust me,


    Abby.”


    “Okay, fine,” I say with a sigh. “I trust you.”


    With my heart in my throat, we rush downstairs and jump into his car. The engine roars to life, and Karl


    zips out of the parking space momentster like a man on a mission.


    “Seatbelt,” he barks.


    I click the seatbelt just in time as he swings into traffic, cutting between a taxi and a delivery van with


    inches to spare. I grip the edges of the seat, white-knuckled, my other hand clutching the pendant of


    my ne.


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    “Karl, are you trying to get us killed?”


    “Just trying to get us there on time,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road.


    I nce at the clock on the dashboard, my stomach lurching. Thirteen minutes to spare. I can’t believe


    we’re really attempting this right now. It’s terrifying, and yet I can’t help but feel a surge of invigorating


    adrenaline that I haven’t felt since the day Karl and I ran from those poachers through the forest.


    We approach an intersection, the light teetering dangerously between the edge of yellow and red. Karl


    pushes the pedal to the floor, and I swear time slows. The light flips red, and another car enters the


    intersection, horn ring,ing straight at us.


    “KARL!”


    He swerves, tires screeching, missing the other car by a hair’s breadth. Wee to a screeching halt,


    the other driverying into his horn and shouting obscenities from his window.


    “Go, Karl, just go!” I urge, my eyes widening even further as other drivers beginying on their horns.


    Karl speeds off, and once we’re out of the intersection, I punch his arm with a force that surprises even


    me. “Are you insane? Be more careful! Nothing is worth risking our lives over!”


    He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine through the rearview mirror. “And if we didn’t make it on time


    because I didn’t take that risk?” he asks.


    “What if we got hit?” My voice is a shaky mess, but I can’t help it.


    “But we didn’t,” he says. I groan.


    But then we turn a corner, and suddenly, there it is—the TV studio. Karl pulls up to the front, and I


    nce at the clock again. Five minutes to spare. My heart is racing and my body is trembling, but we


    made it.


    “You’re insane,” I breathe, my fingers still gripping the seat.


    “Maybe insane is what you need,” he says.


    A few momentster we’re bursting through the double doors, out of breath from sprinting up the steps


    two at a time.


    Inside, it’s like stepping into another world—a world that doesn’t appreciate tardiness. People stare.


    Whispers fill the room.


    The other contestants are already in their uniforms, milling around their stations to familiarize


    themselves and begin prep work before the show begins. They all look up as we burst in the doors, and


    I can see it in their gazes, especially Daniel’s: judgment.


    “Abby!” The voice booms from across the studio. It’s Mr. Thompson. “What on earth—”


    He quickly strides over to us, his eyes squinting in disbelief. When he’s close enough, he yanks us


    aside like we’re kids caught doing something we shouldn’t.


    “Where the hell have you been?” He hisses, his eyes drilling into me. “And where’s your sous chef?”


    “John got sick,” I stammer, “so Karl’s stepping in.”


    “Sick? Now?” His eyes narrow further, if that’s even possible.


    “It was an emergency,” I quickly exin. “He got food poisoning, of all things.”


    “Food poisoning?” Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows leap up. “And you’re telling me this now?”


    “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I reply, my own frustration bubbling over. “We didn’t exactly have


    time for chit-chat!”


    Mr. Thompson nces at Karl, who’s still breathing hard from our sprint. “And what about you?”


    “Call me ‘Ken’ today,” Karl blurts out, his voice low.


    “‘Ken?’” Mr. Thompson repeats incredulously, staring at Karl’s blue surgical mask. “Is that going to stay


    on?”


    “Yes,” Karl affirms. “For personal reasons, if that’s okay.”


    “Look, I know it’sst minute,” I admit, “but I’m here, despite the circumstances. Isn’t that enough?”


    He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, fine. You’re here. That’s something. But you’d


    better make it worth it, Abby. You too, ‘Ken.’”


    “Absolutely, Mr. Thompson,” Karl—Ken—says.


    “Good. Now the two of you have to hurry to hair and makeup. There’s no time to get familiar with your


    station,” Mr. Thompson exins, a reluctant sort of eptance settling over his features. Read at


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    “Hair and makeup?” Karl whispers to me. “I didn’t sign up for a makeover.”


    “It’s not negotiable,” I whisper back.


    Mr. Thompson overhears. “Of course it’s not negotiable.”


    Karl nods.


    “I wasn’t nning on it,” I assure him. I can practically hear my own heart pounding, but what matters is


    that we’re here, we made it, and hopefully, everything will be okay.


    “I won’t, Mr. Thompson,” I say. “I promise.”