Nikolas Lyons. If you turn the key, you turn the clock. If you turn the clock, you save me.

"What?" Nick jerked his face from under the machine. His grandfather's work shed held all sorts of twenty-first century antique motherboards, microwaves, cappuccino machines, key-making machines.

And none of them could speak.

If you turn the key, you turn the clock. If you turn the clock, you save me, repeated the voice.

Nick dropped the magnodriver. He really had heard a voice. More specifically, he'd heard a woman's voice. It couldn't have been his mom. She was out on one of her global shopping trips with his dad, which he'd counted on. She didn't like it when Nick got into his grandfather's work shed and started messing around with all of the antique electronic devices. But Nick had to finish the machine. It would change everything for him.

If you turn the key, you turn the clock. If you turn the clock, you save me.

"I'm losing my mind," Nick said, blowing blond hair out of his face. "I can't lose my mind, not yet at least. Finish the machine. Get off this planet. Then I can lose my mind."

In order to finish the repairs to his machine, Nick had resorted to the Nick Lyons's Living-dead Power Formula: three parts soda, two parts energy drink, and six parts chocolate syrup, chased down with Pepto-Bismol. But that wouldn't cause hallucinations … right?

If you turn the key, you turn the clock. If you turn the clock, you save me.

Nick looked to his feet. The voice had come from under the floorboards. "Ha, ha, Tim. Really funny. I can totally hear you under there." His older brother was probably messing with him. That's all.

If you turn the key, you turn the clock. If you turn the clock, you save me.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again.

"I am not hear voices right now… I can't hear voices."

"You seem disturbed, Nick?" said a motherly digital voice. A white box with two multi-purpose arms and the holographic head of a middle-aged woman floated toward him. Nick let out a frustrated breath. It was his nannydrone.

There had been so many "incidences" involving the blowing up of antique appliances on the Lyons's property that the local fire department insisted Nick's parents post a nannydrone with him at all times. They were clearly overreacting. No one died in the blasts. Didn't make much of a difference for Nick though. The drone was as dumb as a box of bolts.

Nick found the magnodriver wedged between a crate and the wall. He grabbed it, wiped off the dust and cobwebs, and went back to work.

"Again. Why are you disturbed, Nick," the nannydrone pressed.

"I'm not disturbed. I'm busy. The SpaceNow rep is coming at two and my machines not ready." Nick got down to a knee and undid one of the machine's screws with his finger. "I have a plan."

"Ah. Yes, Nick. The plan. I remember." The nannydrone spun and moved toward the far wall with the words THE PLAN scribbled on it. Below were several other note cards, each with their own words and a checkmark: √ Finish Machine √ Collect SpaceNow Prize √ Escape planet and start new life with friends.

"This plan, Nick," it kept its digital eyes on the board. "It is naive."

"What did you say?"

"You are a thirteen-year-old boy with little experience in engineering or technology, Nick. The chances of you winning SpaceNow's plot of land on the moon and one billion dollars is, well, a billion to one. You are naive, Nick."

Nick tried to not drive the magnodriver into the nannydrone's condescending faceplate. He said gritting through his teeth, "It's like every adult thinks a teenager is naive because we dare think there's a better life out there?"

"I am not an adult. I'm not even human. My conclusion came to me from an advanced quantum computer streaming through the globalnet. It is the one-hundred tetrabytes of information per second flowing into my positronic brain that has come to the conclusion: Nick Lyons is naive."

"Shut up!"

"Or maybe you are mentally disturbed." The nannydrone extended a multipurpose arm with a small probe. The probe activated its bioscanner, which appeared as a fan-shaped laser, and shoved it between Nick's face and the machine. The laser swept back and forth, blinding him several times.

"I'm tired of this planet. I'm tired of these people. I want out. Is that OK with you?"

"It is not my feelings on the subject you should be worried about, Nick," the nannydrone said. "It is your mother's. I have been collecting Sonya Lyons's social media messages regarding your attempts to run away. Would you like me to read them out to you, Nick?"

"Please don—"

"April 27th," the nannydrone ignored him. "At 3:14 pm, your mother wrote on her Friendme account." In a perfect mimic of her voice, the nannydrone quoted, "'What-ever! Caught Nick trying to break into my bank account last night. I was like crazy insomniac and found him creeping through my account, running one of those account-crack apps. Ugh!!! Where does he even get these programs? He was two clicks away from buying ten moonshuttle tickets to the Lunar Colonies, AGAIN! Trying to help his refugee friends escape the camp. Next time I'm gonna let him go. Anyone want a thirteen-year-old mentally disturbed demon-boy? Lol!!!!'"

"June 2nd. 10:15 pm."

"Yep. Demon-boy almost lit Hiker's Canyon on fire. Of course. Oh, and he torched the neighbor's greenhouse. It is gone. GONE. Thank goodness for pyrodrones. Seriously."

"June 3rd. 1:23 am."

"Lighting Hiker's canyon on fire, remix. Again, pyrodrones put it out before we were sued by every person on the block. Found out he was messing around in the old tech shed. Blew something up. Probably trying to build a space shuttle. Seriously, that boy is the fuel of nightmares. #mysonisafuturemanhunt."

"June 27th. 9:10 am."

"OK. You seriously cannot pay me enough to put up with demon-boy. Airport security arrested the boy for trying to hook up a leech pod to a Moonshuttle. Trying to sneak all his little refugee friends on there. Thought he could hitch a ride ON THE HULL OF A SPACE SHUTTLE!! Who does that? Seriously. Am I the only mom who puts up with this crap? #WishIcouldrunaway."

All of his mother's social status updates reminded Nick how many times he had failed to runaway. Maybe he should give up? What was the point?