“There is no turning back for Mrs. Webster or her company now.”
Which means there is no turning back for me. “Stef contacted me just after the new ad launched,” I say, thinking of the girl Atlas and I helped save from the Marshals weeks ago.
“And?”
“And Stef’s friends have finally agreed to meet—tonight at eight.”
I wait for Dewey to smile or nod or say something positive about finally getting Stef and her friends to consider helping us. Instead he glances at his watch, then holds out the paper in his hand and says, “You don’t have much time.”
I grab the paper, unfold it, and study a map of a small section of the city, the route I should take and the stops I need to make along the way.
“Our package will be ready when you arrive at the first stop,” Dewey says. “Don’t forget . . .”
“I know where to go and what to say,” I snap, even though I am grateful for the carefully drawn directions.
Dewey merely lifts an eyebrow and calmly says, “I will have food waiting for when you return.” For some reason, that only stokes my annoyance.
Grabbing my backpack, I brush past Dewey and head downstairs and out the door. On the porch, I double-check to make sure I have the money and ID cards, then swing the bag onto my shoulders and start running.
A bunch of girls I went to school with used to gush about their love of running. How each day they did it made them love it even more. I don’t know who they were trying to impress or if they were just insane, but after running every day for several weeks I can honestly say I despise it more now than ever. When my dad left the city, I ran hoping I could out-distance the crushing ache. After ten minutes, each breath of air was like shards of glass scratching at my throat. But I refused to stop. I knew I would need to be faster and stronger now that everything had been taken.
My family.
My home.
Even my name.
I won’t let them take anything else.
Rubber slaps against sidewalk. My breaths come high and fast. After three blocks my calves ache. Not stretching before starting out was a mistake. Just one more thing to add fuel to the frustration churning inside me.
The memory of the Marshals appearing outside Gloss—the looming threat of what they could do to Mrs. Webster and Rose—makes me run faster. Past the corner market. The hair salon. A gelato place with a sculpture of David eating ice cream standing proudly next to the front door. Not a scrap of gum on the walkway or a scratch on any of the signs that I pass. Everything looks perfect. Everyone I pass doesn’t understand the price being paid for the illusion.
Finally, I reach a narrow doorway. A bright blue sign with white scripted lettering reads Screen It. A bell jingles when I push the door open. I step into the air-conditioned space filled with screens of every shape and size—from small handhelds to one that takes up most of the store’s back wall.
“Can I help you?” the tan, dark-haired man behind the counter asks.
I glance around the store. There is a customer absorbed in the task of selecting a cable. Other than him, the place is empty.
Keeping my voice low, I ask, “Can you verify if you have an item on hold for a friend of mine?”
The man behind the counter sits up straight. “I’m always glad to verify information.” He reaches under the counter and comes up with a white plastic case. “Everything is in here. Tell our friend I had to make it a bit bigger than what he asked for, but it was necessary to handle both functions.” He drops the case in the palm of my hand and says, “Tell him I can guarantee at least a hundred hours of battery life. It should go a little longer than that, but—” The man sighs. “Just make sure he doesn’t try to push it much further.”
A hundred hours. Just over four days.
I shove the case in my backpack and ask, “May I use the bathroom?” as the customer approaches the counter.
The man behind the counter smiles. “In the back to the right.”
I nod and leave him to deal with the guy and his cables, head to the back hallway, and instead of going through the left door marked Restroom, I follow the clerk’s directions, which are a match for Dewey’s, and open the Employees Only door on the right.
Despite the Stewards going into lockdown, underground in the Lyceum, this switching station is still open for business. This clerk was willing to help with our package and is allowing me to use the back exit in defiance of Scarlet setting the rails to red. Unlike a lot of Stewards Dewey has reached out to, this one is still committed to the cause. With any luck, Atlas will return with news that he has found more. Their help, combined with the reach of Gloss and the device I carry with me, will finally allow us to uncover what happens to the people the government has disappeared. We’re going to learn what we don’t know and share that information in a way that will make everyone in this country see facts they won’t be able to deny.
I jog down the alley. When I reach the end, I turn south past a line of brown and white brick apartments and red-and-white-checkered sidewalk tables filled with people. The tangy scent of oregano and garlic wafts from their plates. Mitch Michaels, a movie-star-handsome news anchor I’ve grown up watching, smiles from the public screen halfway down the block. He’s replaced by a commercial for TRAVEL USA and its upbeat, sea-to-shining-sea celebratory music. I tune out the sales pitch of majestic images of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, and the Mississippi River and keep running. It’s only when I reach the next block and the screen changes to the bright colors of the new Gloss logo that I come to a stop. I take the moment to watch it without the threat of the Marshals or the chatter of everyone from Gloss.
Thrill and anxiety bubble inside like one of Mr. Reid’s chemistry class experiments. No matter how carefully I measured the light blue crystals or the sugar-like white powder or the acrid-smelling clear liquid, the combination was never quite right. Everyone else’s experiments turned pale pink or opaque. My vials gurgled and overflowed onto the blue-orange Bunsen burner flames.
The new Gloss logo flashes once again on the screen and then changes to sports news.
If this experiment goes wrong, more than a few chemicals will be spilled. I—
Something shuffles on the sidewalk behind me. I wait for the sound of footsteps to tell me the person has moved on. Someone shouts in the distance. Cars whoosh along the street. And whoever is behind me is still there—waiting.
I ease one strap of the backpack off my shoulder.
“You don’t want to do that.”
My heart leaps at the familiar voice even as I get a tight grip on my bag. “That’s what you think.” With that I pivot, swinging the bag as hard as I can at Atlas’s face.
Atlas lunges to the side and has the nerve to grin when the bag barely glances off his shoulder. Before I can recover my balance, he grabs the free strap and pulls. I pitch forward. The bag hits the ground, but Atlas’s arm wraps around my waist before I can land next to it.
“Your weight wasn’t balanced over the balls of your feet,” he says into my ear. My back is pressed against him. His arm still holding me tight. “A Marshal wouldn’t have stopped your fall.”
“A Marshal wouldn’t have expected me to swing my bag. You taught me that trick.” I lean my head back against Atlas’s warm chest. The arm around me relaxes and I smile. “You also taught me this.” I stomp down on Atlas’s foot, then jam my elbow into his stomach. He lets out a satisfying yelp with the first and a grunt with the second.