Just how much did Jenna tell them about me? Do they know? Is that the look on Mr. F’s face now? Revulsion? Am I making his skin crawl because of what I am?

“What’s your real name?” I ask. “I need to know that much.”

“For now, it stays Mr. F. You’ll know more when you need to know more.”

And he’s scared. This is more than just a Favor. Way more. What have I agreed to? I could back out right now. He’d let me. Probably even be glad if I did. To him, maybe I’m even less than a Non-pact. There’s always a pecking order, no matter how lowly you are.

“Let’s go,” I say.

And I walk away with an ass**le who I’m not sure I trust and who’s way faster with a blade than any Non-pact should be.

Alias

The train ride to Boston is silent. I’m traveling as Nate Smith these days, courtesy of the Network. I presume Mr. F has a fake ID just like I do—otherwise, a Non-pact could never get on a train, but then, fake IDs are his specialty. When I try to bring up the Favor, he shakes his head. “Later. Not here.” I don’t try to talk about anything else. He’s on some kind of power trip, and I decide he can trip out all he wants. I’m not here for him, and he’ll find that out soon enough. I’m only here to return the Favor I owe. How long will it take? A day? Two?

The last time I helped a Non-pact, it took about thirty seconds flat, but it stuck with me for days. All I did was get him a fair price on a loaf of bread from a greedy baker who was ripping him off, but it felt like I was saving the world. It felt good, unexpected, and right. That was a power trip in itself. After 260 years of being powerless, I sucked up the power like it was air.

The train pulls into the station and Mr. F stands without speaking, expecting me to follow him. Kara called him Mr. Friendly. She was always quick at sizing up people. I walk cautiously behind him, noting that his limp, which was quite pronounced when we first met, is now gone. Was it all an act? I try to stay focused on him and watchful of the strangers I pass, but the minute we step outside the train station, I find my gaze wandering, recognizing street corners, landmarks, and buildings. I feel the remnants of my past reaching out to me, and I almost feel like the Locke I used to be.

Boston.

Home. My home.

Sure, it’s changed. A lot. After 260 years, I wouldn’t expect anything else. I already saw some of the changes when I was here with Kara, but we only stayed for a single day and I was too busy running or hiding most of that time to really notice the details. A lot of the shops have been converted to housing. Except for food, apparently no one goes to stores to buy things anymore. Tourism seems to be the only thriving tradition of the past—trinket and tourist shops crowd near busy corners. I note that the newer buildings are colorized with a white reflective surface, which explains why the city looked like a glowing geode in a bird’s nest when I first viewed it from a distance. Paved streets have the same reflective color. Is this their attempt to counteract urban warming? Even though it looks like they’ve tried to keep the architecture historically accurate, details like this scream that I’m not in the Boston I once knew.

But there are still touchstones, vague ghosts of the past that float in and out of view, streets I walked with my parents, a corner café where I hung out with Jenna and Kara. And then, unexpectedly, a more recent ghost—the alley where Gatsbro beat me up. I’ve changed since then. It won’t happen again.

I’m expecting that we’re headed for the abandoned boarded-up buildings to the south of Boston, the outskirts where proper citizens never venture. That’s where the Network hid me and Kara the last time I was here. Instead he seems to be on a steady course toward the Commons. It’s getting dark now, and as we head down the center path of the Commons, I lengthen my distance behind him. Something about this doesn’t seem right. Non-pacts don’t congregate in public places. Where’s he leading me?

We’re only a short way in when he loops around and doubles back the way we came and heads down Tremont Street. He walks with his head lowered, not looking at the occasional passerby. I keep my head up. I’m not afraid and I want to know who I’m passing. A few look at me, quick glances perusing my appearance—or maybe they’re only noticing my coat. I’m still wearing my freebie government issue. Proudly. Let them think what they want. The black fabric billows and snaps in the breeze.

Mr. F turns at King’s Chapel and walks along its dark unlit side, then slips into the recessed doorway of the weathered building opposite from it. I don’t remember this building being here before, but I follow. It’s dark—very dark—which is the one thing that still makes me freeze up, but I don’t let him see my weakness. I strain to see and I do. I feel the rush behind my eyes, and the dim red outline of something begins to take form. I can see more than Mr. F can, I’m sure, and as we walk down steep steps, I know before he does that someone is waiting at the bottom with a bat poised to strike.

“Stop,” I whisper. “There’s someone there.”

“There better be,” he answers. “Or we’ll all end up dead.”

The Team

I sit at a table with a woman, the man with the bat, and Mr. F. They stare at me curiously, maybe suspiciously. I’m getting better at reading faces but it’s hard to read theirs, because the lighting in the room is very dim. They lean back in their chairs, capturing the shadows over their faces like they’ve done this before, accustomed to guarding their identities. We’re waiting for another man. The basement is damp and smells of mold. I hear water trickling above, maybe through old leaky pipes.