One male and four female players headed to my table. Since they came toward me anyway, I beckoned them over. I tried to sound cavalier by their sudden presence.

  The only male in the group named himself RIP. I guessed it would be uncool to ask if his name stood for “Rest in Peace,” so I didn’t.

  He patted me on the back before sitting down. “Hey, man, wassup? Is this totally cool or what?”

  I grimaced and nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. Their company felt like being added to a text group full of strangers, placing me in the middle of conversations whose social dynamics I didn’t understand.

  The newbie buff came to mind, the one preventing us from killing one another before level 5. Although we fought in a battle royale, the active ingredients for a successful reality show always included drama. The Ivory Tower Power gave players time to forge friends and enemies, making viewing far more compelling than random strangers battering one another with iron weapons. Reality games always featured alliances.

  Allies amounted to more than competition over the winner’s podium—they offered a means to get there. Any of these players might become partners.

  RIP laughed as he spoke, and I forced another smile. “Oh, man. This is too much! Have you seen the size of the horses here? They’re brutal, man!”

  A woman named PinkFox, who unsurprisingly sported a mop of bright pink hair, sat down next to him. “I can’t believe they ran out of pork.”

  RIP chuckled again to lighten the mood. “Are any of you vegetarians? Does it count if we eat meat inside the game?”

  ArtGirl pouted. “I was looking forward to tasting cooked boar. Those apples Pinky and I found tasted so sweet.”

  I considered assuring her that the pork tasted delicious, then decided against it.

  RIP pointed to ArtGirl. “I haven’t tried an in-game apple yet, but I’ve eaten apples on both the East and West Coast. Oh, man, they’re nothing compared to what we have in the Midwest. Where are you from?”

  ArtGirl answered with a curious frown. “I’m from the San Jose area.”

  “I knew it! I’m from outside Cleveland. When a buddy of mine from San Diego tried an Ohio apple, he thought I’d injected it with sugar water. There’s nothing like an Ohio apple, but your salads are keener than what we have. The only thing that stays crisp on our shelves is heinous shredded cabbages. You Californians get to eat real greens—ours doesn’t really undergo photosynthesis.” RIP laughed again at his observations.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. These players weren’t behaving like competitors. The girls acted overly polite, like how people behaved on the first day of school. This dynamic made no sense, but it was infectious. As I pretended to welcome their company, I warmed up to them. After all, player avatars looked stunning, and my inclusion at the cool table made me feel special.

  Would these players respect me for sticking to my soloist strategy? I didn’t mean to be a jerk, but this wasn’t a vacation. We were still opponents with too much money at stake. After graduating to level 5 and losing my newbie buff, any of them could knock me out if I let my guard down.

  RIP regaled me with his visit to the training grounds. “Look, man, I don’t know about the whole military vibe, but I learned some really keen moves with the practice blades. Have you seen them? They’re wood, but they’re, like, really heavy. I can’t wait to go out and kill something.”

  I laughed with him despite myself. My paranoia seemed unwarranted. RIP acted like one of the most unguarded people I’ve ever met. The contest’s high stakes hadn’t fazed him one bit. Perhaps he didn’t need the money.

  A girl named Fabulosa sat across from RIP. Her Southern twang hadn’t softened her criticism of the game, which seemed a little harsh, even for a gamer. After asking RIP to “Scooch over, hon,” she crash-landed her food plate on the table and plopped down on the bench. “It seems I’m back in school again.”

  RIP and I shared a grin.

  Fabulosa continued her critique. “And it looks like we’re out where the busses don’t run. This place doesn’t even have a magic teacher. Have y’all seen a magic tutor yet? Please, tell me you have.” She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows in a pleading gesture toward me—it seemed our nameplates made introductions unnecessary.

  I commiserated with a shrug. “I found a library. There’s another one in the city, although I don’t think there are any magic books around.”

  Fabulosa sighed and rolled her eyes. “If you find anything, let me know. I whooped things all day but haven’t seen a stitch of magic loot.”

  As ArtGirl and Fabulosa discussed Belden’s deficiencies, one more woman sat across from me. Her nameplate read Charitybelle. She engaged with Pinkfox over a philosophical debate. PinkFox flashed me a quick smile, but Charitybelle’s eyes remained distant as she concentrated on the discussion.

  PinkFox gestured to her companion. “But you admit the first mention of intimacy comes from Troubadour songs.”

  Charitybelle nodded. “Correct. But they didn’t come until after Europe’s cold snap.”

  PinkFox gave her friend a look as if she didn’t follow, making me glad I wasn’t the only one. “I still don’t understand what that has to do with Belden.”

  “It’s a given we’re in a medieval fantasy, but Belden has chimneys.” Charitybelle gestured toward the enormous fireplaces on both ends of Formal Hall. “Without chimneys, there wouldn’t be romance in this world—at least, not modern-day romance.”

  PinkFox narrowed her eyes. “That’s a little kooky.”

  Charitybelle giggled. “It’s about privacy. The Troubadours didn’t invent love. But their songs reflected a new sentiment. Privacy begets intimacy, which popularized the concept of love based on personality and not duty or physical attraction. Our first records of personal love came after a weather change. A mini-ice age.”

  Charitybelle seemed oblivious to my presence, yet catching her eye seemed important. The nerdy nature of her chimney theory bewitched me, but there didn’t seem to be an opportune moment to jump into the argument.

  Charitybelle stared at her plate while focusing on her words. “In the mid-1300s, Europe got colder, so people invented chimneys and discovered they could be used as pillars, giving houses a backbone to build on. Chimneys could heat multiple rooms, which meant walls and adding stories. Separate rooms gave people privacy. Before chimneys, everyone did everything communally—and I mean everything. Ergo, intimacy comes from engineering, not a bunch of gooey poets—the Troubadours came afterward.”

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  PinkFox squinted, following the argument. “So, you’re saying, with Belden’s chimneys, we can expect Miros to be a world where modern love rules.”

  Charitybelle smiled and nodded. “Engineering changes a culture. Look at how the agricultural revolution popularized leisure time.”

  In all my gaming experiences, I’d heard nothing like this and couldn’t stand being left out of the conversation. Thoughts of soloing and self-interest melted away. “But it doesn’t snow this far north. At least, that’s what the librarian told me. Doesn’t that mean the chimneys prove that the game designers got it wrong? Like they’re an anachronism?”

  Charitybelle turned to me. “I’m sorry, I’m so rude. My name is Charitybelle.” She saw the nameplate floating over my head and cringed, realizing too late that it made introductions unnecessary. Her blush could have melted the ice caps.

  Ignoring the nameplate, I echoed her introduction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Charitybelle.”

  She smiled and relaxed her shoulders.

  “My name is Apache.”

  The debate about romance and chimneys got lost in the chat about the game. No one used their real name or talked extensively about their previous lives. They mentioned personal details only if they pertained to the current discussion—as if it were a faux pas to break the illusion of the game world.

  It disoriented me to be surrounded by such striking people, especially the girls. My friends in high school sat at the margins of the lunchroom, hoping to be left unbothered by the popular kids. Among these comely avatars, I felt like one of the jocks, hanging out with the cheerleaders. It made me self-conscious of every move. These players weren’t treating me as a hanger-on. They directed questions at me and included me in conversation.

  RIP behaved so affably that an outside observer might think he was our host, a social sheepdog, rounding up the flock to keep everyone interacting. Whenever someone got quiet, he drew them back into the flow with questions.

  I couldn’t help but warm up to them. Even though they represented walking reminders of a contest that loomed over our heads, I enjoyed their company. Their presence grounded me enough to keep me from going native in this immersive world.

  Perhaps having a cadre of allies wasn’t so bad. Everyone knows that strength often rests in numbers. While learning the game together, we could provide insight into its secrets, capitalizing on the adage that information was power.

  Throughout the evening, I resisted RIP’s persistent prompts to check out our female companions’ impressive cleavage. I smiled and tried to ignore his antics. Since RIP couldn’t voice his observations tactfully, he articulated his admiration by widening his eyes at me and nodding. He flashed these glances as if I hadn’t noticed. It became a running joke between us throughout the night—he’d bug out his eyes, and I’d try to hide a smile while talking to the girls. The juvenile gag got old soon, despite his efforts to resuscitate it.

  The Book of Dungeons had been generous to our physiology. I hadn’t yet looked in a mirror, but RIP walked around with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and chiseled looks, and I doubted I looked any different. We all had action-figure physiques, so I did my best to ignore my biological impulses and focus on the conversation.

  The table turned to sober observations about The Book of Dungeons, from which I learned many things. None of us had taken a class. Fabulosa, our highest-level player, had only reached level 2.

  Fabulosa pointed her fork as she explained how she’d spent her time. “I hitched up with some guards in a brawl against a bunch of merchants. Some locals fussed with a tax collector from someplace called Arlington. It started a fight, and of course—I won.” She comically batted her eyelashes to show her victory wasn’t a big deal. “After that ruckus, I got another quest to deliver a bill to a shipwright up to his ears in debt. That started another fight—which I also won. And I hit level 2 after turning in a couple of collection quests on my way back here. But I didn’t make it back before the kitchen ran clear out of pork.”

  “What did you choose for your power?” ArtGirl asked before anyone could change the subject.

  Fabulosa shrugged. “I took Charge. It’s good for all kinds of situations.”

  I picked my moment to join the banter. “Hey, Fab, what is Charge?”

  “It’s the all git-out of melee attacks. It drops your defense, but you can use it if there are no other openings. I bet it’s good for grouped combat when there isn’t much room to maneuver—and the kicker is, it’s great for kill-shots. I hope y’all don’t mind me kill-stealing.”

  Everyone grinned. The game didn’t reward anyone for delivering the killing blow, but bragging rights went to whoever dealt it. Was I the only one trying to solo? By the way everyone talked, they took it for granted that we’d group up and kill monsters together.

  As much as I wanted to play my own game, fundamental questions occupied my thoughts. “So how do you get powers, like melee moves?”

  Fabulosa’s eyes darted to the nameplate above my head. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew it showed my level 0 status. “Hon, when you hit level 1, your power menu unlocks. You’ll see what powers you can get. Every time you gain a level, you receive a power point. By spending it, you gain a spell or a combat ability.”

  PinkFox turned to me. “Abilities are little attack maneuvers that don’t require mana.”

  I kept the conversation going about the matrix of powers. Hearing their descriptions of spells and abilities confirmed a fear that I’d harbored since acquiring my three cantrips. By leveling up, they acquired things called power points. By spending them, they acquired spells and unlocked more options.

  Spells appeared in player menus only after their requirements became unlocked. If I didn’t qualify for Fireball, the word Fireball wouldn’t be grayed out—it would be invisible. If I didn’t meet its requirements, I wouldn’t know Fireballs existed unless I witnessed one or had another player tell me about it. Listening to them called attention to the strategic value of making friends.

  I wasn’t fond of this system. It seemed reactive, not proactive, and it foiled strategy.

  I became amazed and secretly annoyed that my companions didn’t care about long-term planning. That made us even—I amazed and secretly annoyed them about remaining level 0.

  “Yeah, man. You gotta hit level 1. I don’t know what you’ve been doing all day.”

  The table agreed with RIP while I laughed it off.

  “I spent the day in the library. Old habits die hard, I guess. I’m going to learn as much as I can about the world before making any moves.”

  ArtGirl wrinkled her nose. “I hated killing spiders.”

  The other girls grimaced.

  Charitybelle curled her lips. “Spiders? Ew! I’m glad I found a delivery quest to get me into town. I hate spiders so much that I hate the idea of spiders.”

  Delivery quests helped game developers entice players to explore areas appropriate to their level. Gamers sometimes called them breadcrumbs.

  “I got rats. Did anyone else get rats?”

  No one indicated they had.

  We shared details about our newbie quests. Most of us received tasks to kill vermin.

  I opened my interface quest log to see if the game still offered a rat kill-quest. Time froze as I read the quest’s instructions. The status of the quest remained, except the objective no longer read, “Bring ten rat tails to Mr. McFiddish in the Belden University courtyard.” It requested that I bring them to Mr. McFiddish’s home. The quest’s turn-in location wasn’t static—it updated as Mr. McFiddish went about his business.

  We stayed long after the NPC apprentices left Formal Hall and went to bed until the cleaning staff chased us out.

  Throughout the night, RIP laughed at every one of Fabulosa’s jokes. He showed interest whenever she spoke. A healthy amount of flirtation filled the air. None of the women lingered or shared eye contact with me, so it felt too early to make a move. Besides, I harbored suspicions that this contest might not be healthy for relationships.

  My door stood closest to the stairs, so I peeled away from the group after saying goodnight. I entered the room and flopped onto the mattress. It had a musty, institutional odor, and its only window didn’t open. It wasn’t as posh as Crimson’s room in Southern California, but it provided a safe place to sleep.

  The interface allowed me to give others access to my room, but I declined. Having a private room boded well for sleep. Even though I existed in a virtual world, my dorm felt like the first place that belonged to me. It shouldn’t surprise me that a gamer felt comfortable in a game world—even if I wasn’t doing very much.

  The comfortable medieval accommodations reminded me I wouldn’t have a place after my aunt kicked me out. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to the United States. No, I wanted to stay in Miros as long as possible.

  I’d have to shake off the habit of worrying about affording college—at least for the duration of the contest. If I won, it wouldn’t be a concern. Despite my efforts to be positive, misgivings of homelessness lingered until I drifted to unconsciousness.