I wait until we wind our way through the bookshelves to a small sitting area filled with fuzzy throw rugs, faded overstuffed armchairs, and worn couches before I speak. “What’s happening?” I ask. “What did Scarlett mean when she said the Engineers would remove the ticket from my hands?”
My head is ringing. My eyes burn. Every muscle begs me to fall into one of the chairs and to stay there for days. I must look as tired as I feel because Atlas answers, “Why don’t we talk about that after you get some sleep?”
“I can show her to the women’s sleeper car,” Renu volunteers. I jump because I hadn’t realized she’d followed us. “There’s a bed next to mine that’s free.”
“Thanks, but I’m awake enough to get home as long as someone shows me how to get out.”
Renu points to two poles of stacked lights. They’re flanking the entrance of the Lyceum we originally came through. All the lights are glowing a brilliant shade of yellow. “You heard what they said, Atlas. You’re responsible for whatever she does if she leaves.”
“I’m not staying here.” I take a step back. I don’t know these people. I don’t know what to think about everything that they’ve said and what they claim to want to do. I don’t understand half of it, and I haven’t had time to really think about the half I do understand.
Renu turns to Atlas and crosses her arms in front of her chest. The light catches her forearm, illuminating the black-inked design. “There are more Marshals on the street this week than last. Stewards are failing to report in. People are being careful and they’re still disappearing. Who knows how many will be left by the time the lockdown is initiated.”
“Maybe they just got tired of being a part of this group,” I jab back. “Maybe they just want to live in peace.”
“Hey! If you screw up, they could find me here,” Renu snarls. “They could find all of us. All it takes is one word to the wrong person and everything we’ve worked to protect will be destroyed.”
“Meri . . .” Atlas says my name in a quiet way that raises the hair on the back of my neck. It’s the same tone people use to coax skittish animals into cages before taking them to the vet. “The Stewards have a rule . . .”
“I don’t give a damn about the rules, and don’t pretend you do, either.” I look to Atlas. His face is unreadable, and panic sizzles in my throat. “Atlas, please. I have to go home. My father . . .”
I grab Atlas’s hand and squeeze tight. “When he stumbles out of bed he’s going to worry if he can’t find me. I can’t just disappear. He can’t think—he can’t think that I’ve left him, too.” I blink to keep the tears stinging the backs of my eyes at bay, but that only causes them to burn more. This strange place, the lack of sleep, and discussions about my mother have all laid siege to my defenses. “Please.”
Renu shakes her head. Behind her eyes there is frustration and fear.
Atlas puts a hand on her arm. “I’ve got this, Renu. You should get back to your desk. Nothing will be ready for a lockdown if the Porters don’t get to work.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she warns before disappearing into the maze of walls and books.
Atlas puts his finger to his lips to still the argument hot on mine and watches the opening Renu disappeared through.
Finally, Atlas holds out his hand and says, “There are a few things we have left to do here. Then, I promise, we’ll leave.”
For the second time tonight I give my trust by following him through the bookshelves, this time to an older man in a dusty brown hat sitting at a desk crammed with papers and shelves filled with red books. He shouts orders about an assessment of essentials to several people stacking books on tables behind him. He glances up from the battered ledger he’s scribbling in and spots Atlas. Without a word he reaches under the counter and comes up holding a black bag with a dark green stripe on the side. “I had just about given up. I’m breaking the rules if I hand this over to you.”
“Since when do you care about the rules, Dewey?” Atlas asks.
Dewey goes still as he studies Atlas. Then his eyes flit to me. “There are certain rules I care about very deeply. She looks nothing like her mother.”
I take a deep breath and calmly say, “Sorry to disappoint.”
His deep blue eyes stare at me unblinking, as if waiting for me to break eye contact first. When I do, he says, “If you give in that easily about all things you will disappoint more than just me. A great deal was put on the line to bring you here. I very much hope you were worth such a risk.”
Before I can blink, Dewey tosses the bulky canvas case to Atlas as if it weighs nothing. Just as deftly, Atlas snatches the heavy bag out of the air. As Atlas turns to me, Dewey calls, “‘What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly.’ There is always a price, Atlas. I’m just sorry yours is already so high.”
Atlas’s jaw tightens. Dewey’s eyes swim. Then, in a flash, whatever sympathy I saw is gone as Dewey flips a page in front of him and grunts, “Get her out of here before Scarlett and Holden start wondering if they should take her ticket now. And make sure you keep her from doing anything stupid.”
“Hey—”
“Leave it be,” Atlas warns. “Come on. Let’s go.” I shoot one more look at Dewey, who has pulled his hat low as he crouches over a book, and follow Atlas as he heads through another set of shelves.
Once we are out of earshot, I ask, “Why does he have a problem with me?”
“Your mother’s death hit him really hard. She spent a lot of time reading whatever Dewey handed her. Seeing you . . . it got to him. We go this way.”
I follow Atlas almost blindly through the maze. He claimed Dewey was my mother’s friend, but I never knew the man existed before today, so it seems impossible. Yet so much that should be impossible has happened already.
It isn’t until I see flickering images that my attention returns to my surroundings. We enter a small area where several Stewards are reclining in chairs watching large screens, which are tuned to various channels. On one screen a video of an accident filmed from far overhead plays. Emergency workers dressed in orange-and-yellow jackets scramble through a twisted pileup of a half dozen cars and a smoking semitruck pulling people out of the wreckage.
“I didn’t know the news was on at this time of night.”
“It’s not,” Atlas admits as we duck through another passageway lined with books. “They’re watching recordings of broadcasts from the last twenty-four hours.”
“Why?”
“The most convincing stories are the ones that people want to believe or have a hint of truth woven in with the lie. It used to be the news was all about reporting the facts. Then things changed. It’s part of how the words were taken to begin with.
“According to the news, a truck driver fell asleep and caused the pileup. What we know is that the Marshals were trying to arrest a Steward and the passengers he was transporting out of the city. A car tried to get out of the way of the chase and pulled in front of the truck driver, who couldn’t slow down in time to avoid hitting it.”
“And you know this how?”
“The Steward and one of his passengers got to safety.”
One? “How many passengers were there?”
“Three. A woman and her two children. The oldest girl survived.”
A shadow of unease slides into my chest and settles like a lead weight.
“These Stewards are in charge of letting us know about any lies being reported.” He doesn’t seem to notice my anxiety as he heads away from the news broadcasts.
I shake my head. The news is real. It can’t be changed like words in a book. And yet . . .
“Have you seen Atlas or that girl?” a woman’s voice echoes from somewhere in the maze of shelving, and Atlas picks up the pace through a narrow opening between bookshelves. We go through a door, which leads into another low tunnel that slants steeply upward. Finally, after at least twenty minutes of walking we reach another doorway and the stairs that lead up.
More than once, Atlas glances behind us. Twice, he stops and cocks his head to the side. Each time he does, I hear Engineer Scarlett in my head saying she’d remove my ticket. Those words keep me climbing the three flights of stairs despite the way my legs burn and my head aches. After what seems like forever, Atlas opens a thick metal door. The air is crisp as we step into the shadow-lined alley behind a tall brick building. The dewy, fresh breeze washes away a layer of fatigue as if I have just woken up from a long, very strange dream. A quick glance tells me the street curfew expired almost a half hour ago. The sun will soon be on the rise.
“I have a car parked a couple blocks away. Can you make it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You could go back and become roomies with Renu.”
“Not a chance.” And we start walking.
Atlas’s hand is warm and strong as it holds tight to mine. I start to draw away but realize the connection makes it look like we are a couple instead of near strangers. And, while I’d deny it if asked, I’m exhausted enough to admit to myself that his fingers are like an anchor keeping me from being swept into a current of dark, swirling thoughts. And maybe I’m anchoring him, too, because I know what he’s feeling—the empty loss and uncertainty. And I wonder if maybe what he feels is worse, because winding through it all is a current of hope that the loss isn’t permanent.
“He’s not that bad, you know.”
“Who? Dewey?” I give my head a small shake to wake myself up.
Atlas nods. “He’s a good guy when you get to know him.”
“He doesn’t like me.” I shouldn’t mind. The man’s a complete stranger. Only, the fact that he was my mother’s friend means that I do mind, which sucks.
“Dewey is interested in two things, books and the truth. He’s sacrificed a lot for both of those. It’s made him . . .”
“Irritating?”
“I was going to say impatient, but that works, too. When he was a boy he found a bunch of old books in an attic, read them, and noticed the information he was reading wasn’t the same as the things he was being taught in school. Along the way a teacher realized he had a photographic memory and put that fact in his file. She thought she was helping him. Dewey’s parents died in a fire that was somehow started when the Marshals came to take him away. He spent years outsmarting the Marshals on his own until he met my dad. When he joined the Stewards, he donated all of the money he’d inherited to help keep things going. He’s barely left the Lyceum during the last thirty years.”
I can’t begin to imagine thirty years underground.
“If he’s helping fund the Stewards, couldn’t he talk the Engineers out of locking things down?” I ask. “At least until you know what happened to your father?”
Atlas shakes his head. “Dewey has never wanted to lead. My dad tried to change his mind, but Dewey isn’t interested in working with others. So he was put in charge of cataloging and circulation. He’s much better with books than people.”
That wouldn’t be hard. “So Dewey’s job is to keep track of the books?”
“That’s what the Engineers believe. Dewey would tell you that his job is to find the answer.”
“The answer to what?” I ask.
“How to make people care more about the truth than themselves.”
I’m trying to decide what to say to that when Atlas pulls me into the entryway of a brick building. He whispers for me to stay completely still and shifts his position so I am hidden from view.
Footsteps slap against the pavement in the quiet of the night. Someone is there. Is it one of the Stewards looking for me? One of the Marshals Atlas claims is searching for them? I don’t know what the danger is, but standing this close to Atlas, I can feel the rapid pounding of his heart as he holds his breath.
The footsteps fade, then disappear, and after what feels like forever, Atlas steps back.
“What was that?” I ask as he leads me down the sidewalk, glancing back every few steps.
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing, but I promised I’d get you home. I don’t want to take any chances.”
Atlas leads me to a bright red Mustang that Isaac would kill to own. He drops my hand and reaches under the car. When he stands upright he is holding a small silver box. He flips the lid and pulls out a key fob, and the rear lights flash red as the car unlocks. “Get in.”
The car engine roars to life as I buckle into the black leather passenger seat. “I would think if you were trying to avoid notice you’d want a car that isn’t quite so flashy.”
“We have those, too.” He grins as he steers the car onto the street. “But any car driving around at this time of morning will attract notice. If you were a Marshal and spotted this car, would you think we’re trying to sneak through the city without gaining unwanted attention? Or would you assume I was a guy taking his girl home after a successful date?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“That’s because you’ve never had to wonder if the police officer standing at the corner is looking for you.”
He’s right. I haven’t. “Are the police really looking that hard for the Stewards?”
“Us and anyone ready to resist the truth they want people to believe. The original recycling program was designed to help them eliminate words and ideas so people would accept the reality they have crafted. The new version that encourages good citizenship by asking neighbors to report people who need additional information and encouragement to recycle is designed to eliminate anyone who still knows what they are doing. Anyone searching for words that aren’t part of the world that they want us to accept suddenly has Marshals at their door. Hundreds that we know of have been taken off the streets in the last months. Thousands over decades.”
I shake my head. “How is that possible?” People should have noticed if hundreds or thousands of people just vanished.
He raises an eyebrow. “Where do you think the homeless went after the City Pride Program started their work?”
“I just assumed—”
“They rounded them up and sent them away. Just like the ones that dared ask the wrong questions or learned the truth. One day they are here and then the next—gone.”
Gone. Like my mom. And maybe now his dad.
“They’ve created a world where no one realizes anyone should verify what they’ve been told. No one doubts a text saying a friend got a new job, or questions if a moving van just shows up on their block one day and starts hauling stuff away.”
I think about the moving van I saw just days ago on our block. How many moving vans have been on our block in the past few years?
He looks over at me. His dark eyes lock with mine. “And no one questions the police when they come to your door to tell you there’s been an accident.”
The knots in my stomach pull tight.
Car tires squeal inside my head. The screams from my nightmares scrape against my mind.
Black ice.
Out-of-control car.
Everything changed because of one driver’s mistake.
I was told it was an accident. I never once wondered if the police at the door were telling the truth. Why should I?
Atlas pauses for several heartbeats, waiting for the question he must guess his words have sparked.
Only I can’t bring myself to say the words. Too much has happened tonight. Too much is new. Fear of what is still waiting in the unknown stills my tongue and the question dies on my lips. I’m not ready to know the other secrets he has to tell. Not yet.
So I ask something else. “If all of this is true, why are you hiding down in the Lyceum with stacks of books instead of doing something about it? How can you just sit by and let it all happen?”
If my mother’s accident wasn’t an accident—how could the Stewards let me and my father go on with our lives thinking that it was?
Atlas’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “We have no choice.”
“I thought you said words give you choices.”
“Yeah, but—”
He grabs the bag from Dewey out of the back seat and shoves it at me. “Open it.”
I unzip the bag and find two books inside: a thick history textbook and a dictionary like the one Atlas had me use earlier.
“Read the book. Pay attention to World War Two. Read it. Then tell me how you think we can survive if we come out into the open. Trust me, I’ll be all ears.”
The streetlights through the windshield reflect off Atlas’s eyes. They illuminate his pain, desperation, and resolve. Then he turns the wheel and heads down a street two blocks over from mine.
“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
“Someone was watching my house today.”
“Of course they are.” He pulls next to the curb and cuts the engine.
The matter-of-fact way he says it, as if it isn’t any big deal, freaks me out more than almost anything else I’ve heard tonight. Maybe because the men in the car and the threat they might pose feel tangible. The rest . . . I’m still working on. “So what do I do?”
“Cut through the yards. Hop over the fence behind your house. Go in through the back. Act like things are normal even when you know they aren’t. Trust me, that’s not as easy as it sounds.” Atlas shifts in his seat to face me. “One wrong word could alert the Marshals that you’re working with us.”
“Then why?” I ask quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why did you bring me home instead of keeping me at the Lyceum, where you could make sure I didn’t screw things up?”
His eyes stare out the window at the sky that is beginning to streak with a pale, pink light. “I didn’t tell you the rules before showing you the Lyceum. I didn’t give you that choice. The Stewards are about restoring choices, not taking them away. Besides—” He turns to meet my eyes. “I made a promise, and I don’t break them. Give me your phone number.”
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