Anton arrived just after sunrise, picking up Marbles, Marco, and Lemon in his minivan. Marbles rode up front. Marco and Lemon sat in the back, their kitten baskets and the animal trap rattling with every bump.

  Marbles wore oversized faux-designer sunglasses and her favorite homemade, rhinestone-bedazzled sweatshirt with matching capri pants. Short gray hair poked out from beneath her colorful Kitten Brigade hat. She’d managed to fold and safety-pin it into the shape of a baseball cap, complete with an oversized brim. She leaned back against the headrest and rocked out to the local golden oldies station.

  Little Lemon was wearing a crisp yellow T-shirt with a large sparkling unicorn decal and matching yellow shorts. She sat beside Marco in the back seat, chattering away.

  Marco had on a blue T-shirt paired with his usual black jeans and a pair of beat-up sneakers. He was doing his best to ignore the seven-year-old. Instead, he stared out the window, watching the dead brush whiz by along the side of the freeway. He tried to recall the strange dream he had.

  In the dream, he was alone in the desert, lost in the dark. Black storm clouds, lit by flashes of lightning, rolled across the sky. The desert air carried the acrid scent of wet creosote, the kind that rises during a heavy summer rain.

  Each flash of lightning cast just enough light for Marco to piece together his surroundings. He stood at the center of a perfect ring of tall, glossy green creosote bushes.

  “Of course, Larrea tridentata, the King Clone!” Marco recognized the place in his dream. It was real, a spot in the desert he’d visited once with his parents.

  What looked like a large circle of creosote bushes was actually the sprawling reach of a single ancient plant. Older than the redwoods and even the bristlecone pines, the ten-thousand-year-old King Clone might be the oldest living thing on Earth.

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  At least, that’s what his father once said.

  In his dream, the ancient plant was beautiful. When he reached out to touch it, its branches felt lush and flawless beneath his fingers. Rain clung to the tiny green leaves, leaving his skin cool and damp.

  Marco remembered exactly what happened next. A large, lumpy shadow was lurking nearby, its shape indistinct in the dark.

  “Hello?” he called out into the storm.

  A deep, throaty growl rumbled back. Whatever that is, he thought, it’s not good.

  The next flashes of lightning lit up the truth: the shadow wasn’t a rock or a bush—it was a massive, snarling saber-toothed lion, its fangs glinting like daggers.

  No way. That’s not—no, it couldn’t be…

  “AHHHH! Smilodon californicus!” he screamed.

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating the ring. The saber-toothed cat roared, loud enough to compete with the thunder overhead. Marco just kept screaming.

  Then it pounced.

  He saw the lightning reflected in its glowing amber eyes as it closed in. He remembered the weight of its massive paws pressing him to the ground, the gleam of its glistening white fangs descending toward his face, so close he could feel its hot breath.

  This is it, he thought.

  He closed his eyes and slipped into shock—dream shock.

  Calm darkness enveloped him as his body went limp.

  I’m ready. I’m ready to die.

  The thought came clearly, quietly.

  He was utterly resigned. He had let go of himself completely.

  The ground beneath him felt colder than expected. And it kept getting colder. His limbs stiffened and his breath slowed until, even in the dream, he wasn’t breathing at all.

  Am I dead? Why am I still waiting? He remembered thinking.

  He opened his eyes and gulped in a deep breath, as if he'd been drowning and had just broken the surface into a warm spring night.

  Above him, the sky had transformed: quiet, clear, scattered with bright stars and the soft haze of the Milky Way.

  The saber-toothed cat was gone.

  In its place, a single ghostlike butterfly hovered above his face.

  It settled softly on the tip of his nose.

  “Strohbeeni?” he whispered.

  And then he woke.

  So weird, Marco thought. He remembered the extinct butterfly clearly, but what unsettled him more was how utterly ready he had been to die.

  It had made perfect sense in the dream.

  Now, awake, the thought of giving up repulsed him. Confused him.

  Why would I want to die? I don’t want to die! Marco thought, stunned.

  Then, quietly but with growing conviction, he made a silent vow: From now on, I’ll never surrender. I’m going to fight.