The last vestiges of sunlight have faded into the horizon, leaving behind a chill that whispers over the night air. I walk quickly down the quiet street and turn onto the next perfectly maintained, tree-lined block, moving from the quiet neighborhood into the one bustling with pedestrians and cars and eventually vendors selling royal blue, red, and white T-shirts and hats. Organ music and cheers drift on the breeze as Wrigley Field rises in the distance.
The crowd inside the stadium is roaring when I reach the corner closest to the historic lipstick-red with white lettering sign that my father made Mom and me pose beneath years ago. My father used to have the picture displayed on a screen that sat at the edge of his office desk. When he looked up from his work, he could see the green steel stadium and its memorable sign in the background with Mom and me grinning like idiots. Someone must have removed the screen with that photo from his office. Who knows what happened to it.
Since Atlas isn’t here yet, I stare up at the sign and wonder—is Dad watching the game right now from wherever the Stewards took him to hide? If so, is he thinking of mom and me and our picture? Or has he turned his back on that memory the way he walked away from me?
“You okay?” Atlas appears at my side and I shake off the cobweb of emotions.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not sure I am. I never heard Atlas approach. Never saw him coming. If he had been a Marshal . . . “We should get moving.”
Atlas doesn’t ask the questions I can see in his eyes, which is good because I’m not sure I have answers. It’s easier for us to focus on making our way to the L. We’ll get off at the next stop, and take the bus three more stops away—using a different CTA card at every one so anyone looking at transit card travel patterns can’t trace us back to Dewey’s safe house.
Finally, we climb off the final bus and hurry down the quiet block toward the destination I was given. We pass a small coffeehouse whose windows glow with an inviting warmth. I spot a man in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a brown dress coat standing next to a silver-and-ruby-red bench at the end of the block.
Atlas takes my hand and gives a deliberate nod.
Marshal.
I can’t make out the man’s shoes from here, but I don’t doubt Atlas’s instinct. Hand in hand, we cross to the other side of the street. Then we walk at an agonizingly slow pace along the sidewalk that hums with life while the last gasps of dim sunlight give way to the midnight blue of night. When we reach the next block, Atlas looks up at the public screen that is playing a popular game show. In it, contestants have to perform impossible and often embarrassing or disgusting stunts in front of their former significant others in order to win cash and possibly a second chance at love. Almost everyone I know watches or has applied to be on the show.
I used to think people who applied were crazy, since I never found anything remotely interesting about a guy smearing himself in honey and standing in the center of a bunch of beehives to prove his ex should give him a second chance. After living with Dewey, I know this kind of show is on-air for a reason. “Bread and circuses” is what Dewey called it—giving a sense of security through everyday essentials like food and at the same time providing outrageous entertainment to distract the mind.
I guess if people are busy passionately debating whether Jane should have taken back the guy smeared with honey, or if she was a witch for sending him away, they won’t think too hard about the world around them. They’re too distracted to question. A kind of conditioning for the masses.
The studio audience’s bubbly laughter grates on my nerves even as its mesmerizing effect on those watching on the public screens gives us an opportunity to make sure we haven’t captured unwanted interest.
I chance a glance back toward the coffee shop. The Marshal scans the area, then spots a woman in high heels and a tight black dress. He smiles when she waves. The two kiss while we pretend to watch the woman on the screen dissolve into tears after watching her ex get stung by a dozen bees. Once the Marshal and his date head off into the night we continue down the block.
I check the time when we arrive on the street of our meeting place; the storefront with a bright sunflower on the sign is near the end of the block. The store has already closed for the night.
Just weeks ago, Atlas directed us to take refuge inside this shop. We were being chased by the Marshals for saving the very girl I’m meeting tonight—a girl the government was trying to make disappear.
The off-white glow of the streetlamps and the illumination from the still-open restaurants cause the shadows to retreat from the sidewalk. No other Marshals are in sight, but just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean they, or others, aren’t nearby—watching. We won’t be able to hang here for very long without drawing attention.
“Do you see her?” Atlas asks.
I shake my head and walk up to the bright blue-and-yellow painted doorway, which currently stands empty. The other businesses housed in the same building are also closed.
“Maybe she got cold feet?” Atlas frowns. “There are a lot more Marshals on the streets since we last saw her. That might be giving her and her friends second thoughts.”
My stomach ties into a knot even as I insist, “She said she would be here.”
“I also said you were supposed to come alone.”
Atlas and I spin toward the clipped words. A tall, lanky figure with a black baseball hat pulled low over her forehead appears. She yanks off the cap and shakes out the long dark hair I recall from our brief but terrifying first meeting.
Then she turns toward Atlas. “You weren’t invited to this party.”
“I invited him,” I say. “He’s the reason you’re standing here now instead of in the hands of the Marshals.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it.” Stef shrugs. “And I’m not objecting to his presence. I’m just surprised that he’s here at all.” She looks back at Atlas. “Rumor has it the Stewards have gone into hiding. We haven’t seen any signs of your friends since all those books and papers were handed out. And you’re right.” She gives Atlas a wide, slightly gap-toothed smile. “My friends are having second thoughts. You being late won’t help convince them otherwise.”
“There was a Marshal . . .”
“Save it for the others.” Stef checks her watch and says, “Let’s go.”
Stef disappears around the building and Atlas and I have to hurry to keep up as we go down the alley we all traveled once before, across the street, through the park, and finally into a residential block. Stef keeps the pace brisk as we pass tall two- and three-story brick houses all guarded by perfectly pruned bushes of evergreens, which alternate in height. Stef frowns at her watch again.
“What’s the big deal?” I ask. “We were only a few minutes late.” Nine, to be exact.
Stef glances at me, but doesn’t slow. “For some of the people you’re meeting, a few minutes means the difference between being part of the action, or taken out of commission for a week or more. Seeing the symbol on the screens today convinced them you were serious. They’re willing to listen, but if we’re not there soon, they won’t stick around and wait.”
We move on to the next block filled with bungalows that are painted in shades of yellows and blues that glow in the moonlight.