I glance behind him to Mrs. Acosta, who stands framed by the light of the open kitchen doorway. Then I look down at the book in my hand. I doubt anyone is ever ready to lead a revolution.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Tools and pipes rattle while the van bumps and rolls along the back roads to wherever will be our next stop, and with our fingers intertwined in the dark, we start to plan.
We agree we will have to post the pictures to Gloss soon. Some of the images were too dark to make out. Others were poorly framed or partially obscured by my clothing or bed sheet. I hated each blur and obstructed view, but Atlas assured me there is power in the imperfections. I hope he is right.
“The excitement the paintings of the logos and the online posts our friends are creating will only last so long,” I say.
“Not to mention that we aren’t the only ones who know what is happening to the disappeared people now,” Atlas says. “Mrs. Acosta can convince them to wait for a while, but I spent enough time with Jim and Elise to know they won’t wait for very long now that you’ve confirmed the rumors they’ve heard are real. Whatever plan we come up with, we’re going to have to come up with it fast.”
Atlas volunteers to go through the photos on the tablet again so I don’t have to relive the horror. As if I will ever be able to forget. I know when I close my eyes to finally try to sleep they will find me. But I am glad to leave winnowing down the photographs to ones with the greatest emotional impact to him while I turn on my flashlight, settle the book onto my lap, and start to plow through the decisions that were made hundreds of years ago, looking for things that will help us now.
It’s not long before we climb out of the van on the side of a two-lane road lined with grass and trees and into the cab of a landscaper’s truck while the sky is still dark. The landscaper takes us to his house, where we wait for hours in the basement before his wife loads us into her car and takes us on her daily “visit her mother” trip ten minutes down the road. She explains that we have been taken south from where we started instead of directly east. A safety precaution since the Marshals are bound to be watching all the highways that lead through Iowa to Chicago—although it doesn’t feel so safe when I realize we are only a thirty-minute ride from the boundary of the Missouri portion of the Great American Farm. A direct trip from her house to the north side of Chicago would take eight hours. Ours lasts twenty-nine hours.
Carpenters.
Teachers.
Grocery store clerks.
Musicians.
Computer technicians.
College students.
Priests.
Nurses.
We are with some for a few minutes. Others drive us for hours on back roads I’m not sure appear on any map—until we reach the next person on the Stewards’ train line—as we are ferried on a zigzagging path back to Chicago.
Atlas and I talk to each of them—learning who they are, why they are helping us, and how they came to be Stewards. There are stories of finding old books in attics. Of searching for a friend who had been asking strange questions and suddenly leaves town without any notice. Of seeing something on the news that they witnessed and knowing it was not being reported correctly. Of deciding to run for mayor or the school board or the city council only to be told the Bureau of Election Certification had decided they were not qualified to be on the ballot.
Some were living new lives, having been targeted by the Marshals and forced to leave cities like Chicago and St. Louis or climb out of their dorm windows in Champaign and Wichita. We listen to their stories and answer questions about our own. One brings a phone that Atlas uses to update Dewey. He chooses his words carefully to let Dewey and the others know what I found and our thoughts about the next steps. Dewey sounds like a character out of a spy movie when he says the pot we left to simmer is now boiling, but the natives are getting restless and our friends at my former employer say the window could be closing soon. He promises he’ll work with them to find the best options for all of us to have dinner when we arrive.
In the time alone between phone calls and car rides we wait in basements and back bedrooms where we try to sleep. And when I jolt awake from nightmares of callused hands on my thighs or dead bodies clawing up out of the muddy ground, I take deep breaths and choke back my screams so I don’t deprive Atlas of rest. Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean he should suffer. I stare at the strong lines of his face until the worst of my terror has passed. Then, knowing those same dreams wait for me when I close my eyes, I pick up Mrs. Acosta’s book and continue to read.
In school, we learned about the Declaration of Independence. How it created America. I didn’t know about the war. Or that while being ruled by a faraway king was unpopular, many of the colonies would have been satisfied to stay under British rule if the taxes were eased just a bit. Especially since the war that had already started wasn’t going well.
My school e-texts all showed the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence as calm. Confident. Without fear. Only the truth isn’t calm, and reading between the lines—knowing what I know now—I am certain there was a great deal of fear.
Maybe it was my teacher’s fault that I didn’t understand that the declaration was written because the Continental Congress realized the opportunity in front of them and understood that if the moment passed and things went back to what they had been before there might never be another moment like it again. Maybe it was my lack of imagination or the privilege of growing up in what I thought was safety that I didn’t see how the declaration was a rally cry—not to England, but to their friends and neighbors. It was printed and sent everywhere to be handed out to everyday people and published in newspapers to unify everyone behind the cause. There were parades and thirteen-gun salutes and the tearing down of statues of the king and burning of the royal coat of arms.
All the kinds of things I am hoping will happen when we put the photos Atlas has chosen in Gloss. And still those leading the revolution didn’t stop. They found allies. They stood on battlefields. And they also fought by writing and publishing and giving speeches. They didn’t hope the truth of their declaration would live on in everyone’s memories. They did whatever was necessary to ensure that no one was allowed to forget.
By the time the Steward driving us on this leg steers the car into the lot next to a suburban park to make our next exchange, I have sent ideas to Dewey and Rose of what I think needs to happen next. I have also compiled a list of the allies we will require in order to make it work.
“I was told to give you this,” our driver says, reaching into a large bag she has on the front passenger seat. To my surprise, she pulls out a gray-and-black pageboy hat complete with a jaunty yellow flower. The five-year-old in the car seat next to me makes a grab for the hat. Her mother expertly avoids the curious hands and adds, “On the other side of the park near the pavilion is a bench. The next stop on the train is there. Katy and I will be at the swings if something happens and you need us. I don’t know if you can change anything, but for my daughter’s sake, I really hope so.”
While she bundles Katy into the stroller, I tuck my hair under the hat, grab the bag with the book buried deep at the bottom, and head toward the next stop that will officially take Atlas and me home. We walk side by side across the grass—close enough that if I moved a half step closer I could take his hand in mine. I want to, but I don’t. I can’t. Not quite yet, and Atlas hasn’t pushed me. It’s one more thing I have to be thankful for.
Childish laughter tinkles across the sunny park as we pass the slides and the yellow-blue-and-red jungle gym. The late-morning air is comfortably warm. Atlas points out a group of local government workers in bright orange vests as they power-wash a statue close to the sidewalk. Since we don’t know if the Marshals have alerted others to look for me, I keep my head angled away from them as we head for the wooden pavilion just beyond a patch of white lilies.
I spot the hat first—gray and worn—and my steps slow.
His striped, short-sleeve button-down shirt and beige pants are rumpled. There are smudges of sleeplessness and worry under his eyes. He spots us, slowly gets to his feet, and removes his hat. I walk faster and when Dewey opens his arms, I step into them without hesitation. His clothes smell like they always do—like old books and paper and the touch of cinnamon he uses in his coffee and suddenly, I feel like I’m home.
Dewey pats my back, then clears his throat and steps back. He doesn’t apologize for what has happened. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Neither does he wince at the bandage on my ear or the scrapes that makeup does nothing to conceal. He simply studies me for what feels like forever before asking, “Do you remember when we first met?”
“You said I didn’t look anything like my mother.”
He gives me that irritating, all-knowing smile.
“It turns out, my observation was incorrect. You look more like your mother every single day.” His voice cracks. Tears shimmer in his eyes. Then he places his hat back on his head, adjusts the brim, and says, “Well, I hope you weren’t expecting to rest now that you have returned. As a proverb most aptly espouses, there is no rest for the weary. A great number of people are waiting on us and there is no time to waste.”
“I thought you don’t drive,” I say as Atlas and I follow Dewey to the parking lot. After having lived most of the last thirty years with the Stewards in the underground Lyceum, I can’t imagine that Dewey has had much time to practice behind a wheel.
“Of course, I don’t drive,” Dewey says, opening the door of a bright blue compact car with a long scrape along the side. “Lucky for us, my friend here does.”
He climbs into the front seat and slams the door. Atlas and I slide in back and come face-to-face with the same smug smile I remember seeing just before she threw a punch.
“What?” Joy asks, brushing her brown-and-blond-streaked hair behind one of her dangling gold-hooped ears. “Not who you expected to see? Didn’t you tell her?” she asks Atlas, who slid into the backseat next to me.
“Tell me what?”
“Joy has family in Dixon,” Atlas answers. “When I needed to get to you, she drove me the first leg out of town.”
“Atlas and Dewey told us you were in trouble. When Atlas said he needed a ride out of the city from someone who wouldn’t draw any attention, I offered to help.” Joy shrugs. “I grew up two blocks from here, which is why anyone who might be looking for you won’t think twice if they spot my car or do their locator crap on the GPS in my screen.” She digs under her seat and comes up holding a paper bag. “My godmother baked cookies this morning. I was nice enough to save a couple for you.”
I catch the bag that she wings back at me and ignore the tantalizing aroma of chocolate and butter long enough to ask, “Why?”
“Because eating too many cookies is bad for my health, and Dewey here is on a diet.”
“I never said the word ‘diet,’” Dewey protests as Joy steers the car out of the parking lot. “I’m watching my cholesterol.”
“Same difference.”
Atlas chuckles and reaches for the bag, while I push for an answer. “Why are you going out of your way to help us? You made it pretty clear how much you hated anyone involved with the Stewards.” Especially me.
“Because Stef, Ari, and the kids are busy doing some kind of online-hacking thing and I suck at computers, so I drew the short end of the stick.”
Dewey makes a tsking sound.
Joy lets out a loud huff. “Fine. Look, just because I don’t agree with you on everything doesn’t mean we aren’t on the same side. And . . .” Joy glances at me in the rearview mirror. Her eyes lose the smart-ass glint as they meet mine. “I’m really glad you made it back, Meri. Chicago hasn’t been the same since you left.”
It turns out she means that—literally. As the silver, black, and glass buildings fill in the cloudless blue sky, Dewey and Joy fill us in on all the things Dewey didn’t want to say on the phone about what was happening back here. About how Stef and the others continued to paint logos throughout the city both at night and also during the day, when the city had no chance of removing them before people took notice—and they hit places that the news could not ignore: the sidewalk directly in front of the main gates of Wrigley Field, the famous silver jelly bean–looking Cloud Gate statue, and on the inside of several red and blue line L cars.
“We would have lost Ari and Shep to the Marshals if Dewey hadn’t told them about the Stewards’ hideouts in that part of the city,” Joy says.
But while Ari, Stef, and half the others are currently in lockdown in one of the old Steward stations, Amber, Jake, and the other computer whizzes continue to post online comments under various social media accounts.
“They’ve created dozens of fake accounts and have been getting everyone online totally stoked about Gloss,” Joy explains. “According to the twins, the program Dewey’s guy created is amazing. It gives a fake location to anyone attempting to track their position,” Joy explains.
“We have another day, maybe two before the government breaks through their defenses,” Dewey says.
“So, if we want them to use their fake accounts to draw people to the proof Meri brought back, we need to launch the special edition of Gloss—like, now,” Atlas explains.
“What if it doesn’t work?” I ask the question that has haunted me since those final moments at the farm with Wallace. “What if we’re wrong and people don’t care?”
“Meri,” Dewey says as we drive across the La Salle Street Bridge. “I understand you’re scared. We’re all scared. But rebellion is not like fruit. It will not change colors and fall from the tree to signal that it is ready to be picked. The only way to know if the time is right is to take a bite.”
He’s right, I think as Joy cuts into a parking space a truck just vacated and kills the engine. There are no guarantees. Waiting a few days—a few months, a few years—won’t change that. We take a stand now and hope the spark we strike becomes a blazing fire.
“If you are ready, there are a number of people waiting on your return to get this revolution started,” Dewey says, opening the door of the car. “You might want to bring the cookies.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, climbing out after him. “I thought we were going home to plan.”
“Did you think those of us here in the city have been sitting around doing nothing?” Dewey adjusts the brim of his hat and smiles. “I know how to read books on revolution, too.”
Twenty-One
Perhaps when I walked out of the four-story brick building wedged in between taller structures of gleaming glass, I should have known I would be back. The Stewards chose the building for one of their stations because it was in an area where people of all shapes and sizes came and went throughout the day and night. It made sense that Dewey would direct those who had barely escaped the Marshals here to lie low.
“Substantiate.” Joy reads the small plaque on the keypad while Dewey punches in the emergency code the former stationmaster gave to him when she left the city. “Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say as I follow them through the same doorway I watched my father walk through after I turned down his ultimatum and he stepped out of my life.
He never looked back to the bright, open foyer where I stood waiting for him to change his mind. It hasn’t changed at all since then. Only I have.
The last time I was here, energy buzzed through the halls. We believed we had shattered the mirage of government lies, only to have that hope fade as the hours passed.
The building is tomb-quiet now.
Memories tug at the edges of my heart and then scatter at the echo of hurrying footsteps in the stairwell. When the door opens, Stef walks through. She’s wearing black leggings, a dark purple tank, and a black ball cap, but the smile she gives to me is anything but dark. “Oh my God, you actually made it! You’re here!”
“We’re glad you’re back,” Ari adds from behind Stef.
“We have new allies?” Atlas stops walking.
“Are Mrs. Webster and Rose here?” I ask. “I have to tell them that I found Isaac.”
“They’re both at Gloss waiting for one of our people to bring your photos. You’ll talk with Rose and Charity soon to help them finish the story they’re going to print. But right now, we’re late.” Dewey punches a code into the elevator keypad and I stare at the dented doors as they slide open. “It seems the Marshals aren’t the only ones who recognized the significance of Meri’s logo. Scarlett and the other engineers found a way to contact me. They have had a change of heart.”
Joy, Stef, and Ari follow Dewey inside. Atlas doesn’t move.
“You want us to go to the Lyceum and work with Scarlett?” Anger sparks off Atlas’s words. “Have you forgotten what she did to my father? He was your friend, Dewey. He dedicated his entire life to the Stewards and Scarlett betrayed him. He could be dead right now and it would be because of her.”
Dewey sighs and pushes a button on the elevator to keep the door from closing. “I will never forget, Atlas. Your father saved my life when the Marshals were after me. He made me a Steward and gave me a place to feel as if I was making a difference. Scarlett betrayed him. Nothing can change that. But as the ancient proverb says: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”
“Does anyone understand what the hell he’s talking about?” Joy’s quip does nothing to break the tension.
“Scarlett isn’t your friend, Dewey,” Atlas snaps. “And she certainly isn’t mine.”
“You don’t have to be friends to work with someone,” Dewey replies with a calm that makes Atlas’s eyes flash.
“Dewey’s right,” I say, my heart twisting at the betrayal and resentment that storms in Atlas eyes. “I don’t like it any better than you, but if we are going to have any chance at all we need allies. We have to accept the help that’s offered even if we hate where it’s coming from. If we don’t, we’re just asking to be defeated.”
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