“Only a trusted few in the Resistance.”

“Who were they?”

“You’ve already met them. Carver, Livvy, and Xavier.”

I try to process what this might mean. Her estranged bitter parents versus three trusted members of the Resistance. “Was Karden close to the three of them?”

“Carver and Karden were childhood best friends.” She shrugs. “But they all had a long history together.”

“You don’t seem to like any of them.”

She steps over to a hutch that holds a few dishes for the tiny kitchen, checking a plate like she’s just noticed a speck of dirt on it. “It has nothing to do with liking. It has to do with reminders. I can barely stand to look at them because when I do all I see are memories.” She pauses, rubbing her thumb across the plate. “They make me remember all the nights I lay on my cot in prison, staring at the ceiling and wishing it had been them and their families in the burned rubble instead of mine. Every ugliness in myself and every horror from that day are what I see when I look at them.” She pulls a towel from the drawer and begins wiping down each plate and restacking them. “When I saw you yesterday…” She shakes her head. “I thought, they have no right to do this to me again. No right.”

I walk over to her and pull the towel from her hands so she has to look at me. “They aren’t doing anything to me, Miesha. I’m here because I want to be. I don’t know how all these things work, how any person ends up in a place where they never expected to be, but maybe sometimes we find ourselves in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time and then maybe there’s just as many of those other times too when we’re in exactly the right place just when we need to be there. I’m hoping this is one of those other times.”

She’s silent like she’s trying to weigh the odds. “Me too,” she finally whispers, and then dismisses me in her trademark Miesha way, snatching the towel back from me and wiping a final plate.

When it’s time for me to leave Jenna says she’ll walk me out. Miesha and I don’t say good-bye, as we never do. Maybe some scars last forever.

When we’re in the dark stairwell that leads up to the street, Jenna pulls me closer and whispers, “Did you tell Raine?”

She already knows. I hear it in her voice. I shake my head. “No.”

“Why? Are you afraid?”

“No. I just didn’t get the chance.”

“That’s probably the poorest excuse I’ve ever heard for not telling someone that you love them.”

Yes. It probably is. But I can’t begin to tell her all the reasons why speaking to Raine is no longer an option, so I just nod in agreement and walk up the stairs to the street level.

* * *

I hide in the shadows, watching my apartment from across the street. I wear my black government charity coat as camouflage, but maybe for other reasons too. I remember when I saw land pirates wearing them, filled with swagger. The first time I put one on that’s what I needed, swagger and to feel dark and dangerous the way Miesha described Karden. That was my purpose then, to feel strong enough to survive. I know a coat doesn’t make someone into something else—it’s only a symbol of what you want to be—but it’s a good reminder too.

I know who I am and it’s not a rich kid living in a luxury apartment going to school with rich kids. It’s freeing not to have to play that role anymore, even if it makes me a target. I suppose one’s true character is impossible to hide for long. On that much, the Secretary and I agree.

My palm ripples and my chest catches. I jerk my iScroll up, hoping and praying Raine has had a change of heart, but the caller is unidentified. Anonymous. I hesitate, wondering if I should accept, but before I can the call ends. “Percel, who was it?”

“Sorry, sir, it was an unregistered source. No caller ID.”

Who besides Raine and the Network knows my code? And why did they terminate the call before I could answer? Is someone trying to figure out where I am?

I look back at my apartment. I deliberately left the shutters open and the lights on so I could check for unusual activity when I returned. I don’t want to be ambushed. Security patrols on the street are more frequent, slowing down as they pass my apartment, but at least they don’t stop. The Secretary seems to be employing cheap intimidation methods with a clear message: Stay away from my daughter.

Even though I can’t see my front door from my position, I open it with the remote code anyway, hoping it will trigger movement inside if anyone is there. It remains still. When I decide that everything is reasonably clear I return to the apartment, lock the door behind me, eat a leftover chunk of cheese, and wash it down with some water. I’ve hardly eaten today.

Next I call Carver, trying to dispel my guilt over not taking his call last night, wondering if I could have made any difference for Livvy. He sounds and looks drained, as though he hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m sorry about Livvy,” I say. “Any news?”

He shakes his head. “No. Any news on your end?”

I want to give him at least a glimmer of hope. “I was able to duck into the Secretary’s office last night for a few minutes and got a quick glimpse of some blueprints. There’s a lighting grid down in the tunnel. I think it must lead to something.”

His face brightens. “You’re going back tonight?”

Apparently the Collective wasn’t notified. The Secretary must assume that I have the good sense not to show up. Maybe that’s the purpose of the increased patrols. At least that’s one worry off my mind—Xavier and Carver don’t know yet that I was thrown out. “Yeah, going back tonight,” I tell him.