A hundred responses leap to my lips, but I turn to Atlas and wait for him to answer. His grandfather was one of the first in the city to see the implications of the government’s push to remove words from public use, then textbooks, and finally all sources of printed words. He and his friends went against the popular recycling push and not only collected and preserved books, they created the Lyceum under the city to house them until the time came when people were ready to embrace those books and the truth inside them again.
“My father dedicated his life to the Stewards in order to gather and protect the truth. He carefully recruited others to that mission, hoping that eventually the right moment would come where everyone could be told about the lies the government has told.” Atlas’s eyes narrowed. “The Stewards were hunted. My father was taken. I don’t know if he is dead or alive, but if he were here I think he’d give you the same answer. Why should you put yourself on the line to help us? Because the truth has to win. It’s why we’ll still do what we believe is necessary no matter what you say.”
“But you’d have a better chance with us. Right?” Shep quips.
The others around the room nod.
“Time’s up!” Ari shouts. The youngest in the room complain, but they immediately get to their feet and start for the stairs.
“Wait,” I insist.
“We heard you out,” Stef says. “We’ll talk it over and let you know our answer.”
“When?”
“When we’re ready,” Joy offers with a smug smile.
I walk to Joy and look her square in the eyes. “Some Stewards believed their way was the right way and were willing to destroy anyone who expressed different ideas. This is your chance to prove you’re better than them.” I unzip the bag on my shoulder and upend the spray-paint canisters of neon pink, yellow, orange, and white on the ground. “Or maybe,” I add, turning toward the stairs, “you’ll prove you’re more like them than you want to think.”
Five
Atlas says nothing as we walk back to Dewey’s street. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he has already written Stef and Joy and the others off—like the Stewards who have refused to help. Are they simply afraid? Or are they like Scarlett—who cared more about being right than about the freedoms we have lost?
I have no illusions. I know our plan isn’t perfect. Getting people to read Gloss in even greater numbers is a good start. And while I told the truth about hiding the words in the Gloss images, what I didn’t say is those words were only a last resort. The dozens of designs on my tablet will only be used if the third step in the plan doesn’t go the way we hope. And only if Mrs. Webster can continue to keep Gloss open through her cunning and connections.
I see only one Marshal sitting at a café down the street from Gloss when I report to work the next morning, but there is no time to worry about him as everyone dives into work getting the new issue up and running. It isn’t until late in the afternoon that Rose finds me in the bathroom to let me know the mayor called her mom personally this morning to congratulate the magazine on the new look and to make sure she wasn’t inconvenienced by the surprise Media Quality spot check from the night before.
“My father must have talked the mayor into getting involved,” Rose whispered while we ran the water in the bathroom sink. “Mom told me to tell you that we’re fine and will be ready when you are.”
Will I be ready? I wonder hours later, long after Mrs. Meacham finally releases the team with the warning we will be working late again tomorrow. But while everyone else is probably long asleep, I stare at the city in the shadow of a large pedestal. Atop the concrete block is a stunning Native American warrior rider seated on an intricately detailed steel horse.
The driving curfew makes the night seem impossibly quiet. I shift the bag I carry on my shoulder. The clink of the paint cans rings loud in the silence.
Golden lights gleam from the windows across the skyline, brightening the shadows of the silver and black steel buildings that carve out a distinctive silhouette against the black night sky. The well-tended, well-spaced trees sway in the gentle breeze that carries with it the scent of the lake and whatever flowers the City Pride Department planted in the dozens of rounded-edge square stone planters in the paved plaza.
On a sunny, warm day, this area would be filled with tourists and Chicagoans alike. Currently, there are a few strolling along the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue. Not far from me, a lone couple is sitting on one of the benches, wrapped around each other in a way that makes it clear they have no interest in anyone around them. Across a twisting road from me, a lone runner pounds the pavement near my warrior’s twin statue. When I turn toward the lake, I spot three people on bicycles, taking advantage of riding in the moonlit, temperate late-night air. If I didn’t know the truth about “verify” and the Marshals and the missing people who dared to look too closely or question too much, I would feel completely safe here in the heart of the city.
But I do know. I know as I study the streets and the trees that lead to the lake, then the buildings to the west that stretch into the embrace of the velvet sky.
The city is beautiful. It’s the place my mom dedicated her life to making attractive and welcoming. Painting over whatever the government was doing. Kidnapping and oppression and death. Anger fills me as I look up at the warrior with his bow pulled back, ready to strike.
The Native Americans fought in the war that created this country. They helped fight for freedom, and while I only know a tiny fraction of the history removed from our modern textbooks, I know that the government betrayed them. They didn’t give up their land willingly as I was taught. They refused to conform to what was convenient for the government and were slaughtered. Their land was stolen. Their freedoms. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise that even Dewey’s textbooks only dedicate a few paragraphs to their story.
“History is written by the victors,” Dewey said when I noticed the lack of words used for such horror. “And people are happy to let them. No one wants to consider whether their happy lives came at a terrible cost.”
Maybe he’s right. Despite everything I know, I still find myself wanting to believe in the things I’ve been proud of all my life. That scares me more than anything. And it’s why I can’t let them win.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn and start toward Michigan Avenue. Gusts of wind accompany my footsteps as I cross the normally bustling street. I briskly walk along the wide expanse of currently empty road, first under the covered walkway of an old stone building, then on the open sidewalk—away from the lake and into the city.
I flinch at every sound as I travel the handful of blocks to my destination. Each shift of a shadow has me looking for signs of the Marshals or the Chicago Police. Atlas wanted to be here with me tonight to guard my back—to act as my eyes when I am too busy to see. But there is no reason for both of us to be at risk until it is absolutely necessary. And if I am honest, this walk—one that will strike at the heart of everything the city stands for, and that my mother dedicated her life to—is something I need to do alone.
Finally, my destination comes into breathtaking view. In the distance, high arching iron and tinted glass windows are filled with a beautiful blue-green light. The same vibrantly colored light shines atop a roof elaborately decorated with aluminum sculptures of owls and intricate metal foliage that my mother first pointed out to me when I was barely old enough to walk. Next to the darkened buildings around it, my target shines like a beacon.