* * *
—
In the brief period of time it took us to walk the few blocks from the diner to Scarpio’s car, I told him everything I knew about the game: how it was a hidden and secret thing, a deep underground obsession, and how, if you weren’t looking for it, you’d most likely never heard of it. That it was reputedly ancient and possibly connected to the Knights Templar, the Illuminati, and the Thule Society. I detailed everything I’d heard about the alleged prizes: NSA or CIA recruitment, billions of dollars, or immortality, and about the list of winners known as The Circle that appeared all over the world, seemingly at random, before and after each new iteration of the game. I went on to tell him all I could remember about the mysterious Hazel, the most famous Rabbits player of all time, who’d supposedly checked out right after they’d won the eighth iteration. I ended with something about how most people who studied the game believed that Alan Scarpio was Californiac, the winner of Six, and that winning the sixth iteration of the game had resulted in his becoming extremely rich overnight.
I looked at Scarpio’s face carefully while I was delivering that last bit of information, but his expression betrayed nothing.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Most people interested in Rabbits believe the game is currently between iterations, and are waiting for the eleventh version to begin.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s all I can think of right now,” I said as the two of us finally reached Scarpio’s black Tesla sedan.
“Can we continue this tomorrow? A late breakfast at the diner?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Great.” Scarpio pulled a small black leather case from his pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to me. It had been printed on some kind of thick off-white material, linen or bamboo maybe. On the card was nothing but a phone number.
“Let’s meet back at that diner at eleven tomorrow morning to continue our discussion,” he said. “Give me a call if you have a conflict and we’ll set something else up, but this is important, and I’d really appreciate it if you could make it.”
He got into the car, started it up, and rolled down the driver’s-side window.
“I’ll be there,” I said, working extremely hard to stop myself from grinning like an idiot.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and then he guided the shiny black sedan away from the curb, down the street, and out into the night.
I stood there for a long time after his taillights had faded into the distance, doing my best to digest what had just happened.
I was initially surprised that Alan Scarpio didn’t have a driver, but after thinking back on our conversation, it kind of made sense. For a billionaire, Scarpio was definitely what you’d call “down to earth”—except for the part where he’d allegedly won a fortune playing a potentially deadly secret underground game that most people had never heard of.
NOTES ON THE GAME:
MISSIVE BY HAZEL
（AUTHENTICATED BY BLOCKCHAIN）
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A man walks into a dead letter office and asks the person in charge of the facility if they’d be willing to keep their eyes open for one very particular stamp. It was pressed into service in 1932, and on the front of the stamp is what appears to be an arctic hare. The stamp comes from the country of Thirland. Now, if you know anything at all about geography, you’re aware that Thirland doesn’t exist.
It remains, however, a beautiful stamp. I’ve seen it.
There’s something about the stamp that makes you feel strange—like you know you’ve seen it before, like you’ve been aware of its existence your entire life.
Picking out what’s important from the static they use to confuse us is a key aspect of achieving success in the game of life. This game isn’t so different.
Just because you’re convinced there’s a dangerous secret process running beneath a secret world doesn’t mean there isn’t a dangerous secret process running beneath a secret world.
—HAZEL 8
4
THE PASSENGER DISCREPANCY
My parents died when I was seventeen. I can’t say that it happened suddenly, because I have no idea how long they were trapped inside that capsized ferry before they eventually succumbed to the freezing cold water.
My mother was an only child, and my father’s brother—an uncle I’d never met—declined familial custody. All of my grandparents were dead by that point, which left me almost completely alone as far as family goes.