“Good to know you haven’t forgotten while I’ve been gone.” Atlas rubs at his side, then grins. The sharp lines of his features soften. The contours of his deep brown face catch the light differently, creating something too compelling to be called something as ordinary as handsome.
He’s here. Safe.
I take a step toward him.
“Are you going to hit me again?”
Before he finishes his question, I lock my arms around his neck and pull his head down to meet mine. His lips are warm and strong. He pulls me closer and I lose myself in the liquid heat spiraling through me, thankful for this moment filled with excitement, sparks of color and light, and the tugging need for what could come next.
Atlas gasps with pain and the moment shatters into a thousand tiny shards of reality. Atlas rubs his arm where the Marshals shot him weeks ago.
I’ll never forget that moment. The bullet piercing him. Atlas launching himself into Lake Michigan to convince the Marshalls he was dead.
Somehow he had the strength to swim through the bone-chilling water and get back to the Stewards’ meeting point. He was lucky—the bullet passed clean through the arm. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a close call—and a sign of what could come for any of us.
“Did you reinjure it?” I ask.
Atlas shakes his head. “I had a close call yesterday and strained a muscle. No big deal.”
“What kind of close call?” For the first time, I notice the purple shadow of a bruise on Atlas’s jaw.
“The Marshals found one of the old Stewards’ stations. There were two Stewards who didn’t make it to the Lyceum in time for the lockdown hiding there. I could only get one of them away from the Marshals. The other . . .” A haunting emptiness fills Atlas’s eyes. “I was going to follow them to wherever they took her, but she used the deadman’s switch before they could put her in the car.”
The ever-present worry that his father might have taken that same life-ending step shines in Atlas’s eyes.
“We’ll find your father and Isaac,” I say, picking up my fallen bag and checking to make sure the plastic case inside escaped damage.
“Is that the tracker we—”
“Yeah.” I let out a relieved sigh and tuck it back into the bag. “Dewey is going to run some tests and make sure it’s ready to go.”
“I thought I found the Unity Center. That’s why I was out of touch longer than planned,” Atlas explains. “Only it was a dead end. The City Pride Department started renovations on the site two months ago. The guy at the hot dog stand across the street said the building had been empty for a few months before construction began.”
Which meant that the Marshals’ holding facility had been closed and the City Pride Department had begun erasing any sign of their work long before Atlas’s father went missing.
I used to dream about working for the City Pride Department—just like my mother. City Pride dedicates government resources to making every part of a city beautiful, nationwide. It originated from a pilot program in Chicago based on the theory that an attractive place to live would create a sense of pride for residents in the community, and a desire to keep the neighborhood both attractive and safe. Everyone cheered when crime plummeted in the Chicago neighborhoods where the program had been implemented. Streets that had been neglected for years were brought to life by government artists and designers. Suddenly the area that had once been considered the most dangerous in the country was an example of how to make a city both beautiful and safe.
For years, I envied my mother for the positive impact her art had on the world. I was thrilled when she encouraged my own artistic inclinations and couldn’t understand why she suddenly told me I should shift my future dreams to something less demanding. I thought she felt I wasn’t good enough. Now I know it was because she had found out the truth.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. Still, after everything I know, I have to consciously remind myself of that fact.
“How about the Stewards you visited?” I ask.
“I found nine.” Atlas stops walking. “None of them are willing to work with us. At least not yet.”
My heart sinks. “None of them?”
“They still believe in the cause, but . . . they heard about what happened. On the pier. They don’t want to put themselves in that kind of danger until they know for certain we can make a difference.”
My fault. I pushed them to move forward. I convinced them that sharing the truth would change everything. I was wrong. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to work with me, either.
“How did you find me?” I ask as we walk to the end of the block.
“Dewey.” Atlas gives me a ghost of a smile. “He gave me the training route you were taking. He’d have something to say about you stopping to admire your work.”
“Dewey has something to say about everything.”
“He also said Stef and her friends made contact.”
“I’m meeting with them after I drop off Dewey’s package and change clothes,” I say.
“Well, then we’d better get moving.” Atlas drops my hand. He smiles, but there is frustration and worry behind his eyes as he says, “I bet you’re still not fast enough to beat me back to Dewey’s place.”
Hitching my bag onto my shoulder, I let the conversation about the future fade and do the only thing I can do—I take Atlas up on his bet and run.
Three
Atlas wins, but only by a half block.
I’m getting stronger, I think as I tug on a forest-green T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
Atlas holds out a beat-up blue baseball cap as I come down the stairs. “Ready?” he asks.
I take the hat, run my thumb over the edge of the repair I recently did on the lining, and nod.
Dewey steps out of the shadows of the living room with several CTA cards. I place my “Merriam” card on the small entryway table so I don’t mistakenly use it, and take the ones offered by Dewey.
“Change the cards you use with every stop and—”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I finish the thought, knowing that if I do anything stupid, it will be Mrs. Webster and Rose who pay for my mistake.
“Good advice, but not what I was going to say.” Dewey puts his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. “Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to remind you of James Thomson’s words. ‘More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes, when it obeys the watchful eye of caution.’ Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I want to say yes, but if I do I am pretty certain Dewey will call my bluff. “Not even a little bit,” I admit.
Dewey smirks. “Rest assured we will discuss that deficiency.” He shifts his hat lower on his forehead and turns to Atlas. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to be careful, but as Meri has demonstrated, just because I understand something doesn’t mean someone else will.” With that he disappears up the stairs.
“I’ll meet you on the corner by Wrigley Field,” Atlas says. When I nod, he goes to the back door to avoid notice by anyone who might be on the street. I tuck my hair under the battered baseball cap, shove Dewey’s new CTA cards into my pocket, and step onto the front porch.