“I highly recommend the crowd-surfing,” he says instead. I smile, an easy smile that comes from a narrow, heart-pounding escape. I speak for the first time. “Thanks for the tip. We’ll do that,” I say.

My head’s spinning before we even slip through the entrance to the city. Our close encounter with the partiers, the pulse of the music slamming around in my head, the thrill of being thrust into the midst of the biggest celebration in the Tri-Realms: it all adds up to a muddled brain.

When we trot into the subchapter, all battle-clad and full of adrenaline, my jaw drops to the floor. A brilliant, yellow orb hangs high above the city, shooting shockingly bright light across everything beneath it. I try to look at the ball of light, but am instantly blinded, forcing me to use a hand as a visor. An artificial sun. Nothing could have prepared me for it. Compared to the dim, overhead lights of the Moon Realm, this subchapter is lighted as if by a thousand fires, and yet all that brightness comes from one big ball hanging from the cavern roof. After a few seconds the spots and stars clouding my vision dissipate, and I take in the rest of the scene before me, continuing to use a hand to shield my eyes from the artificial sunlight.

Although the other sun dweller city we passed through was beautiful and incredible—far surpassing anything I’d ever seen—it was empty of humans, the population getting a good night’s sleep before a day of fun and celebration. But this…this is just plain nuts.

The streets are wide and long and straight, jammed with thousands of people wearing the most colorful outfits I’ve ever seen. They’re moving their bodies in what I assume is meant to be dancing, but is more like convulsing, their hips gyrating to the beat while their arms flow over each other like waves. On top of the crowds are dozens of people doing what I’m pretty sure the drunk guy was referring to before: crowd-surfing. Hundreds of hands pass the bodies across the crowds, roaring with delight.

Everyone seems to have a drink of some sort in their hands. Some of them are blue and pink bottles like we saw before, while others hold crystalline mugs and conical glasses full of liquid of varying colors. Somehow most of them manage not to spill their drinks while they move like maniacs. I assume it must come from lots of practice.

The band, The Sun Rockers, is dead ahead, on a raised stage in the middle of the road. They’re wearing bright red, plasticky-looking outfits with pointed shoulders and knees. The lead singer’s black hair is sculpted into a red-tipped Mohawk. He’s clutching the microphone like a rope, using both hands, while he wails a melody about how he’s “gonna hit the party hard.”

“C’mon!” Tristan hisses, and I realize I’ve stopped and am just staring out at the crowd, while the others are moving down a ramp and into the fray.

“Act like the other sun dwellers,” I mumble to myself, recalling Tristan’s advice.

Jogging slightly, I catch up to the others, pushing in close to them as we form a little pod which we can hopefully use to push through the crowds. Tristan leads the way, slipping between the bodies, unafraid to bump and jostle his way through. I cling to Tawni’s back, while she clings to Roc, instantly feeling claustrophobic. Despite living underground my entire life, and having endured many tight crawlspaces and tunnels, this is far worse. Sweaty, churning bodies. Hands all over the place, unabashedly groping at me in all the wrong places. Cheering and screaming so loud I’m starting to worry I might lose a portion of my long-term hearing. I wasn’t prepared for this at all.

Hang on to Tawni. Just hang on. You’ll get through this just like everything else.

I can tell Tawni’s feeling the same way, unable to mask her horror as a tall, muscly, shirtless guy smacks her on the butt as she passes by.

“Just go to another place, Tawni,” I say, squeezing one of her shoulders. She glances back, manages a nod.

At first we’re able to make steady progress through the herds of sun dwellers. There are a lot of strange and interesting people. A girl with pink hair tied into tight little braids. A guy wearing just his undergarments, both on his head and in the more normal pelvic area. Three guys who look identical, wearing more makeup on their faces than many of the highly makeupped women. The men really are as pretty as the women. Many of the men have long hair, lustrous and silky and full of glitter and colorful hair ties. Most of their ears are pierced, adorned with diamond studs or shiny, gold hoops. Some of them wear dark eyeliner and lipstick.

Definitely not like the Moon Realm.

Tristan’s head bobs and bounces as he fights through the crowd, hopefully taking us in the right direction to eventually give us some breathing room. He’s heading straight for the raised stage, and as we get closer the way forward gets more difficult, as the bodies mash even closer together, almost no space between anybody. With our movements slower, it gives me the chance to watch the reactions of people as we pass by. Right away I realize that Tristan is our biggest problem. He seems to know it, keeping his head tilted down and a raised hand over his face, but it still doesn’t stop some people from recognizing him, just like his tramp-admirer in the caves thought he looked like the son of the President. Heads turn as guys and girls alike stare after him, not sure if they were mistaken at having just seen the heir to the presidency. A few of them even say things like, “Whoa! Wasn’t that Tristan Nailin?” or “Dude, did you just see who I did?”

Not good.

Eventually someone will act on what they see and chase after him, trying to get an autograph, a touch, a kiss, or maybe all three. I decide to take a chance. The only good thing is that they’re less likely to recognize me with him marching along in front.

Just as we push past a row of dancing bodies with their backs to us, I grab one of their hats right off their head. The reveler, too busy grinding up against other nearby bodies, doesn’t even notice. The hat’s got a huge brim that can cover a whole face, is littered with metallic stars and hearts and other bobbles, and has a bright blue bow around the dome top. Other than clearly being made for a woman, it’s perfect. Tristan will just have to deal with it.

I pass it forward to Tawni. “Pass this up to Tristan,” I say.

She gives me a look that says, “You’re crazy,” far better than any words could, but sends it forward to Roc anyway, relaying the message. Roc hands it to Trevor, who hands it to Tristan. He looks at it like it’s a rare disease, holding it away from him, and for a minute I’m scared he’ll just toss it away, but then he sort of shrugs and plops it on his head, using a hand to pull the wide brim over his face. Yes! I think.

Our progress, which has been like walking through mud, abruptly grinds to a halt. We’re about twenty feet from the stage, and I can clearly see the band now. The lead singer is running around now, not even bothering to sing, like he’s on drugs. “I can’t go any further!” Tristan yells back. “We’ll have to go another way.”

I cringe. The thought of going around or back or any way that keeps us in the press of the crowd any longer is too unbearable. I look past Tristan, my eyes naturally zeroing in on the maniac singer, who suddenly throws his microphone to the stage and leaps off, landing on a bed of hands, which draws even more screams from the audience. That’s when it hits me.

Why go through when we can go over?

Little did I know at the time, but the drunk guy had given us the best suggestion of all. The singer is passed around, moving rapidly across the sea of helpers. It’s certainly a far faster way to travel than our current method.

“Tristan, up!” I yell above the noise, letting go of Tawni’s shoulders with both hands for the first time, so I can motion up.