Beyond that, in the farthest-flung outer circles near the desert wasteland, I would not dare to go.

So I stick to this entertainment circle, walking around its periphery, attaching myself unobtrusively first to one group of people, then another, trying to look like I’m a natural part of it all. Could it be possible that there is no pursuit? Maybe I flinched fast enough that the securitybot didn’t get a clean scan, or it was damaged when the clumsy Greenshirt knocked it down. Maybe the Greenshirt hit his head and couldn’t set off the alarm.

I’m tired, from my earlier run, from stress, and mostly, I think, from anger. Fury, I’ve just discovered, is incredibly draining.

Along the edge of the gently curving walkway there’s a bench for two molded in the shape of a tiger, fashioned so the beautiful orange-and-black animal seems to curl its long striped body protectively around the sitters. I perch on one side, thinking about the empty seat beside me. I try to look like I’m just waiting for someone, like I’m not completely alone in this sea of people. The smile I’m attempting feels tight, but I scan the crowd as if I’m searching for my own particular friend. What if someone meets my eye and smiles back? What if they break from their own group—because everyone seems to be traveling in a pack—and join me? They might sit, and say hello, and look into my eyes . . .

I blink and turn my head down, looking at my hands clenched tightly in my own lap. Tonight is not the time for finding a friend.

Because I’m looking down, I miss danger approaching. Which is probably just as well. If I’d seen it coming, I would have panicked and bolted. This way, though, they’re practically on top of me before I notice them, and there’s nothing I can do but stay still and innocuous.

Two Greenshirts are walking slowly along the sidewalk right toward me. I look down again quickly, but not before I make fleeting eye contact with one of the Greenshirts. It’s the same one from before. My heart races, and I can’t move. I know what’s coming next. He’ll shout out a warning and they’ll both pile on me, drag me to the Center, and then . . .

But nothing happens.

They keep walking slowly toward me.

I sneak another glance. The young Greenshirt with the pale fringe of hair is looking away from me now. He has to have seen me! What’s going on?

“Did that bot signal turn out to be anything, Rook?” the other man asks, pausing right in front of me. He’s older, and has gold stripes on his sleeves.

“No, sir,” the younger one says. “I was standing right next to it and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

I can’t believe it. Why is this Greenshirt lying? Why doesn’t he say what he saw?

“Must have just been a glitch then,” the sergeant says. “There’s no record that it actually scanned anyone. Probably nothing, but stay alert anyway. Look at everyone closely. Don’t let the smallest detail slip by.” He starts deliberately scanning the crowd. They’re so close that if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch their gear. Since lethal guns have been outlawed since the founding of Eden, they carry nonlethal weapons that shoot charged plasma, with a current strong enough to bring a human target to their knees.

The younger man’s eyes seem to flick my way swiftly, but I can’t be sure. I feel like I’m going to pass out. The sergeant begins to turn toward me.

“Huh,” Rook suddenly says as a thought seems to strike him. “A glitch, did you say? EcoPan controls the securitybots. Didn’t think the EcoPan ever had glitches.”

I gasp as his commanding officer hits him, a hard punch to the solar plexus that makes him double over. “If I ever hear that kind of filth coming out of your mouth again, you’ll be off the force.” Then he makes a sign I’ve seen in my lessons on Civics vids: a closed fist rising up the center line of his body, spreading to an open hand, palm inward, when he reaches his face. It is a symbol of a seed burgeoning into life. The sergeant bows his head briefly as he makes it.

“Forgive me, sir,” the young Greenshirt mumbles, and the pair moves on.

My heart seems to drop into my stomach, and I think I’m going to be sick. What on Earth just happened? Why didn’t that Greenshirt Rook report me? Greenshirts are the first—and most vicious—line of defense against any threat to Eden. He should have pounced on me the second he saw me, beat me to the ground, taken me into custody . . .

And when his sergeant was about to look right at me, he deliberately blasphemed against the EcoPan, earning his commander’s wrath, and immediately distracting him so he wouldn’t turn in my direction.

I sit frozen for a minute more, because I don’t think my legs will work right now. I watch the people walk by, flights of birds in bright feathers. None of them knows what I am. But none of them knows who I am, either. I’m safe but alone. And I’ll always be alone—until I have my new identity and I’m no longer me.

A sudden whir comes from my left, and I turn to see the flash of a metal bot streaking toward me. They’re coming for me after all! I jump to my feet to run, but sure enough, my legs are shaky, and before I can even begin to stagger away the bot crashes into my shin. I cry out, first in pain, then in relief. Oh, sweet Earth! It’s not a securitybot, just a ferrybot delivering more takeout. It beeps irritably and zooms around me on its mission.

Bots are known for their fast reaction. In fact, I read in one of Ash’s Civics books that bots are designed to be as unobtrusive as possible, zipping through the city autonomously, serving humans without ever causing them inconvenience. I remember one section noting that however fast a bot moves, it never collides with a human. Ever.

But that ferrybot crashed right into me as if it didn’t see me.

I think about how the city lights illuminate around everyone else as they stand in their doorways or walk along the city streets, lighting up just for them, turning off immediately behind to save precious energy. The world didn’t light up for me. My way was dark.

Can it be possible? Can the city not see me?

The thought makes my stomach knot. I always knew I was secret. But invisible? It is as if I don’t matter at all. Sure, it’s lucky for me. Still, it hurts somehow. I have a mad desire to scream, “Look at me!”

A few people have noticed the bot accident, and several curious pairs of eyes regard me. An elderly woman says, “Are you all right, young man?” I want to look at her, the first person in the real world to show me a scrap of kindness. But even as I raise my head, I lower my lashes. If she sees my freakish kaleidoscope eyes, she’ll know I never received the eye implants. She’ll know I’m a second child.