Training? Or is it programming? What's inside of Dot that is beyond her control? Everything? She's a Bot. I have to remember that. But there is still something different about her. Is that possible? Can a Bot be more than just circuits and programming? I think back to the hissing cashier at the diner--a Bot too, but as different from Dot as I was from my brother. Where did their Bot paths diverge on the assembly line? Or was it somewhere after that? "Never mind, Dot. Just look for Kara. We have to find her. But if you do see her, don't yell out. Just tell me. And don't call me Customer Locke. It's just Locke. We're both Escapees now, right?"

She nods in a curious rapid way like she is unable to speak, or maybe she is just trying to be silent like I asked. Miesha turns to me, and I motion for her to watch the crowds on the right side while I scan the faces on the left. Kara is tall, but so many people here seem to be tall too--and so many with black hair. But her hair is unique--thick and straight and shiny, bluntly cut just above her shoulders, always shimmering in waves as she walks. I search for those familiar waves.

If there was ever a time I wanted to reach back into her mind, it is now, and I would freely let her walk the dark corridors of my mind again. She knows what is there. She knows every hidden corner. Maybe that's what makes me fear her as much as I love her.

"There! Is that her? Two walkways over."

I follow the direction of Miesha's eyes. Two moving walkways over, about thirty feet in front of us, the back of a head with shiny black hair comes in and out of view among the crowd of other travelers. Yes. I would know that hair anywhere. I can't see her shoulders or what she is wearing, but that's her. She is weaving through the crowd, pushing in front of others just the way Kara would do if she was in a hurry. And she is.

"Take Dot," I say, and I jump up on the first divider between the walkways and down again, trying to catch up. I hear disgruntled rumblings from surprised passengers. One lady shrieks. Miesha calls after me, but I can't take a chance on losing Kara. I push past several people, and some push back. One man grabs me by my shirt, but I pull away. I jump up on the next divider and then down again. Now I'm on her walkway.

"Kara!" I call. Heads turn, but not hers. I squeeze past more people, apologizing, hoping I won't be reported, but I am so close, I can't slow down and risk losing her now. The walkway ends just ahead, and I watch her get off and hurry away, the back of her head disappearing in the crowds. I push harder, stepping on feet, jarring one passenger who falls. "I'm sorry! Sorry!" I yell over my shoulder, hoping they hear me.

I step off the walkway and spin. Where is she? I run in one direction and then stop, scanning the crowds. I spot three Security Officers walking toward me. I tuck my chin down and head for a thick tangle of crowd in the opposite direction, blending into their mass. At the first corner, I turn and scoot behind a kiosk, surveying the souvenirs. My back is wet. My breath comes in gulps, but I try to smile at the Bot eager to sell her wares. As soon as the officers walk past, I leave her mid-sentence and go back into the main hallway, walking in the opposite direction--back toward the train platforms that head to San Diego. Miesha and Dot will look for me there. Kara will head that way too. She may be waiting for me already. She wanted her freedom so badly, and Gatsbro is still a threat. His goons hit her face, for God's sake. Why shouldn't she be afraid? She didn't want to identify herself in an unknown crowd where capture could be imminent. That must be why she didn't turn.

I look down and walk faster, careful not to bump into anyone this time and draw attention.

Chapter 36

We sit at the front of the car on the train to San Diego. Miesha and I are seated next to each other, and Dot faces us in a spot that accommodates assistance chairs. Her face is pressed to the window as she views the world through a passenger's eyes instead of a driver's. She has stern orders from Miesha not to call out and draw attention to us, just to enjoy the view. And she is. The sun is setting, striping the window with pink and orange, and I listen to her hum now and then, almost like a purr, like the world passing by is filling her up with sweet, warm milk. I wonder who programmed her. Someone with a cat? Who filled her head so she would be the way she is?

We are minus Kara. She wasn't waiting at the platform, so we had to board the train just before it departed, hoping she was already on it. I've walked down the whole train from one end to the other. There's no sign of her. Where is she? Did she get lost? Dot and Miesha both assured me there were other trains she could have taken, routes that would take longer to get to San Diego but perhaps provided a faster escape from Gatsbro.

He was there. Miesha saw him. He and his goons were searching the station. She and Dot both wear floppy hats now, quick disguises that helped them slip past Gatsbro's animals. How did he know to go to Topeka? We didn't know that we were coming here ourselves until long after we had escaped them in the alley. Who could have tipped him off?

I open my hand and look at the remnants of the iScroll, wondering, but only a few specks of the blue and green tattoo remain. It couldn't transmit anything. In just a few short hours, my hand has already begun to heal. Is that what Miesha meant? That I could make things change within my own body? Do I have that much control? I cup my cheek. The bruise is still tender, but the swelling is gone. I touch my ribs and press. They hurt, but not like this morning when I could barely move. Have I adjusted my sensitivity levels without knowing it? How? When did it happen? What kind of freakish body do I have that it can be adjusted like I am pushing buttons on a machine?