For everything other than sleeping, Ash and I have more or less shared a room since childhood. Shared everything, really. Any personal possessions I have are in Ash’s bedroom, hidden among his things. And they all look like things a boy might have. I can’t have too many possessions of my own. Imagine if someone came in and found a bedroom with dresses, and holoposters of shirtless pop stars and all the other things other girls probably have in their rooms. Dead giveaway. Ash and I even share most of our clothes.

I don’t want to let Ash go. He feels my hold on his arm tighten, sees the fear in my eyes I can’t quite hide. I’m hardly even thinking about the unexpected visitor. “You go hide,” he says in a raspy whisper. “I can make it.”

I’m not sure he’s right, but I don’t have any more time to spare. I hear the quiet whine of the front door sliding open, and then the murmur of unfamiliar voices. With a final worried glance at Ash hauling himself up the stairs, I whirl and run for the closest sanctuary, hoping I’ll be in time.

I have to crawl backwards on my belly through the low ventilation access door into an impossibly cramped space. If I go forward, I won’t be able to close the door myself. I have only about an inch of clearance on either side. As I snap the door shut, I remember that I was running on moss, climbing on rocks just a moment before. Did I leave any telltale marks on the floor outside my hiding place? Too late to check now. I slither backwards on my elbows and toes, an inch at a time, for several feet, until I reach the place where the crevice opens up enough for me to stand.

It’s a little better here, but not much. Unlike my other hiding spots, this one isn’t built for any kind of comfort. It’s an emergency bolt-hole. We run periodic drills, Mom timing me, to make sure I can access all four of my hiding places quickly. But I’ve never had to use this one before. It’s the last resort.

I have room to stand, and that’s about it. Each time I breathe, my chest and back press against the plaster of the wall. It smells odd in here, stale and close. I’ve gotten used to having a limited life, but this is a little extreme. My vista ends about three inches away from my eyes.

But I’m safe, hidden away. Just in time. I hear an unfamiliar voice coming nearer. I’m surprised I can hear it so clearly. The walls must be thinner than I thought. For a crazy second I think about knocking on the wall, sending a mysterious message like an unseen spirit. Mom has told me ghost stories, gleaned from records in the archives. In the days of ignorance, people believed in all kinds of things. I don’t believe the old tales, though I’ve always liked hearing them. But if Ash is right, this is a Center official. They’re known for having zero patience with superstition or anything to do with the way we lived before the Ecofail. Not to mention, of course, the whole threat-of-death thing if I’m discovered.

So I stand at attention in my narrow sliver of safety, upright and alert like a Greenshirt recruit, and wait for the all clear.

When I hear the distinctive sound of people settling themselves in our living room, I figure the all clear will be a long time coming. I sigh, and my breath bounces against the wall back to me, warming my face.

I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting out of the unknown visitor. Probably something terse and official. Most likely, they’ve come by for some after-hours emergency, or what passes as an emergency. Maybe Mom needs to sign off on the duplication and distribution of some pre-fail artifact, or Dad has to authorize one of the restricted drugs for an upper-level Center official. Usually they message ahead, either calling on the unicom or sending a messagebot to herald their approach, giving me time to hide. What can be so urgent that it has to be a surprise?

Whatever I expect it’s certainly not the sound of weeping from my mother. She sounds like she’s right on the other side of this wall, and I actually take a step forward, stubbing my toe. Do they hear? No, I don’t think so, because the stranger speaks. I hear him clearly through the wall.

“One week,” he says. I frown in puzzlement. What is happening in a week to make Mom cry?

“So soon?” Mom asks, despair in her voice.

Dad immediately cuts in. “We’ve been waiting almost seventeen years,” he says gruffly. “Not nearly soon enough if you ask me.”

Almost seventeen years? Are they discussing something about me? They must be. Either me or Ash.

“You understand there have been difficulties,” the stranger says, placating, though I can tell from his voice he must be a little annoyed, too. “Black market lenses are just the beginning. Half the criminals in Eden can get fake lenses that show another person’s identity on a level-one scan. The problem is creating a new identity.”

“We paid you enough,” Dad snaps. “It should have been done long before now.”

“Hush,” Mom says to him. She sniffs hard, and I can tell she’s trying to pull herself together. “Go on, Mr. Hill. Please tell us the rest.”

“I don’t care how he did it, as long as it’s done,” I hear my father say in an undertone. I can picture his face, impatient and peevish as it so often is, his eyes restlessly glancing sidelong. “A week, you said? Why not sooner?”

I hear the doorbell chime, and Mom gasp, at exactly the same time, so I can’t tell whether she is shocked by that, or by what my father has said.

“Are you expecting anyone?” the stranger asks in evident alarm.

I’m wedged in my tight nook, blind and stifled, but in my mind’s eye I can see clear as day the way Mom and Dad exchange a quick look. Their relationship isn’t always perfect, I know, but they do have that trick of silent communication. I’ve often wondered if other couples can do this, hold rapid unspoken conversations with a glance, and reach a conclusion without a word. I wonder now if I’ll ever know someone that well.

I hear quick movement through the wall, and a startled sound from the stranger. I realize he’s being hustled upstairs to my attic hideaway. Whoever he is, at least he’ll be more comfortable than I am.

Mom rushes back a moment later, and when she talks in a hushed, urgent voice I realize Dad hasn’t gone to answer the door yet.

“Will they find him?” she asks.

“How should I know?” he snaps. “I don’t know who they are or what they want. Probably just someone from work.”

Mom sighs in frustration at his optimism. “But why now, of all times? We should get him out of the house.”