Chapter 1: The Pill and the Worm

Coach pressed the pill into my palm. “Take it,” he said, voice flat as the gym floor. The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed off the waxed floor. A row of battered Gatorade bottles lined the bench. Someone’s phone played a country rap mix under the bleachers.

His whistle glinted under the fluorescent lights as he promised, "This supplement will let you be reborn, step up to varsity."

But what I saw nearly made me puke:

Inside my senior teammates—the ones already starting on varsity—something writhed and twisted. A fierce, clawed, sticky worm, pulsing at their core.

1

I was born in the era of the Great Plains, with eyes that could see through things. I helped the folks in Maple Heights find underground water lines.

On sweltering summer days, neighbors would call me over, laughing that I was their secret weapon whenever the city inspectors came by. Sometimes, Mrs. Delgado from two doors down would bring over a slice of peach cobbler as thanks.

They thought I could predict things and called me the Miracle Kid.

This reputation spread, eventually drawing the attention of recruiters from the Silver Hollow Academy.

So, Coach Reynolds came down from the city overnight and brought me back to Silver Hollow, saying he’d take me under his wing.

Coach, the old man, even produced a supplement. He said, “Take it. It’ll boost your energy and help you make varsity faster.”

“Once you make varsity, you can start training for college ball.”

He said this like he was promising me a ticket out of our small town—a future with real stadium lights, maybe even a shot at a D1 school. I could smell the leather of new cleats and see those Friday night lights flicker in my mind.

“Thanks, Coach.” My hands shook as I faked it, the pill slick on my tongue. I forced a grin, praying Coach didn’t notice the sweat on my brow.

After returning to my dorm, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I quickly spat the pill out from under my tongue.

The sweet shell cracked between my teeth, and I gagged—inside was a golden-brown bug egg, sticky and pulsing.

A not-yet-formed larva was wrapped in a transparent membrane.

It squirmed and struggled, its eight compound eyes tightly shut—

it only needed a host to provide nutrients, then it could quickly grow and become stronger.

The campus radio was playing a late-night country song down the hall. I nuked the thing in the microwave, praying the acrid smoke didn’t set off the fire alarm. If the RA caught me, I’d have to explain the smell—maybe blame burnt popcorn.

Juice splattered everywhere. Then I threw its shriveled skin into the trash and burned it in the dorm microwave until it was nothing but ashes.

The acrid smell made my eyes water. I kept the window cracked, worried some RA would smell it and ask questions, but nobody came.