Page 12 of The Most Dangerous Games

Since arriving here in Ohio the day before, in a place somewhere between Cleveland and Cincinnati, somewhere that refuses to resolve into a real place on any map, no one has been allowed inside the tents or even been allowed to get close to them.

The letter promised no cameras. The lenses above the tents disagreed—quiet, mounted high, watching everything. And once Hannah Wagner notices them, she can’t stop noticing the way the lenses seem to tilt. Not track everyone—just some.

They were ordered to turn over their phones—told they’d get them back after the first test. They’d also signed paperwork—stacks of it, clipped tight, meant to overwhelm. The title page called it a humanitarian resilience assessment. Nobody smiled at that.

This diverse collection of people of all ages has been flown here from their various countries, not knowing anything about what will be in store for them except what Jimmy described in his invitation letter. They know nothing about the games. Or where they’ll play out.

For now, they’re all milling around trying to understand what the numbers they’ve been given signify. A thousand nervous patterns in one tight space. People whisper in different languages. Some pray. Some pace. Some stand too still.

Wyatt Jordan wonders why there is a need for armed guards in this field.

“Are those men there to protect us?” Hannah Wagner asks him.

She’s standing beside Alek—tall, Eastern European, calm in a way that feels practiced. Wyatt can’t tell if Alek is brave or just tired of being afraid.

“But from who?” he says. “Or maybe a better question is—from what?”

There is a man standing directly in front of him, one who’s only introduced himself as Jack, a hard-looking man with a southern drawl, tattoos on arms that look like the ink was burned into him along with his tan.

Jack follows Wyatt’s gaze to the rifles. Doesn’t flinch. He turns to Wyatt and says, “Possible they’re worried they might have to protect us from each other.”

Wyatt almost laughs—then doesn’t. Because the idea lands.

“It’s not that at all,” Wyatt hears from behind him.

They all turn around.

“Hi,” a tall young man says and smiles broadly. “I’m Jimmy.”

“No way!” Wyatt exclaims, because some part of him is still eight years old and watching a video where someone gives away a house like it’s nothing.

“Way,” Jimmy says and puts out his hand to shake. “And you’re Wyatt Jordan.”

8.

Wyatt stands there feeling starstruck and dumbstruck at the same time. The MrBeast he’s grown up watching on screen is standing right here in front of him.

“You know who I am?”

Jimmy’s grin softens. “I do. I know some of you. Names, faces. And I’ve been given the basics on the rest. I know you too, Jack. And Alek, I appreciate you choosing to be here despite your circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Alek says.

“So wait . . . what . . .” Wyatt stammers. “What are you doing here?”

Jimmy glances out at the tents, at the guards, at the cameras that absolutely weren’t supposed to be here. For a heartbeat, he looks serious.

“Well, let’s see,” Jimmy says, choosing his words. “Since they asked me to be the one to invite you,” he says, “I kind of felt like I should show up for the first day of orientation and say hi.”

“Orientation,” Alek says with a dry edge.

“It does feel like the first day of school,” Jimmy says.

“Or boot camp,” Jack says. He doesn’t bother hiding the suspicion. “You gonna explain what’s actually happening?”

“Not everything,” Jimmy shrugs. “I’m happy to tell you what I’ve been told, but obviously I don’t know what I don’t know.”

“How about some highlights?” Alek asks.