He understands a sibling’s bond.

“I’ve seen you with Ellie . . . how you protect her . . . ,” I say, trailing off. I clear my throat, swollen with emotion. Pawel lays his hand on my shoulder. I place a hand on his. It feels comforting.

“Ava’s my entire life. Promise me, Pawel, you’ll watch over her.”

Pawel stares back at me with determination, his muscles tensing beneath the weight of my request. “I promise.”

I nod, satisfied, and release my grip, turning to the boxes marked “Women’s Wigs.”

“Now, how do you think I’ll look as a brunette?”

I lie on the king-sized bed inside the penthouse room of Tower One, wide-awake and fully dressed.

“What’s the time?” Ava asks, twisted in the sheets next to me. She’s been tossing and turning for the past hour, a fitful battle with ever-elusive sleep. With a heavy sigh, she throws back the comforter and rolls to my side of the bed.

“Four thirty,” I whisper. Another half hour before we say goodbye.

We stare up at the darkness above us, the blackout glass sealing any hint of the coming dawn. I’ve been fantasizing that we’re back in our twin bed inside our basement—that Ava and I will only be separated for the routine eight hours of a school day.

“It’s only two weeks, Mira,” Ava assures me. “Fourteen days and we’ll be back together.”

No matter the success or failure of our missions, all teams are to be in Dallas by the end of the second week. Each of us memorized the address of the designated safe house called the Last Stage. I repeat it over and over in my mind, 818 Akard Drive, as if otherwise I’ll forget where to go and Ava and I will never see each other again.

That’s the plan anyway. It will work. Complete our missions and reunite in Texas for the final takedown of Roth.

There’s so much that could happen between now and Dallas. But I can’t think about that.

Think about the task at hand.

“I wish we could have found a way to talk with Rayla before we left,” I say. “To let her know we’re okay.” I let a long beat pass. “Do you think she’s okay?”

After the Council Room meeting, Ava and I had huddled alongside other Common members inside the Intelligence Room, watching the hours-old news footage highlighting Rayla’s war of words with Roth. I exchanged anxious glances with Ava and Emery, those who know Rayla the most. No one else but us seemed to notice that my grandmother looked unwell.

Ava has no way of knowing the status of our grandmother any more than I do, but she answers anyway. “Yes,” she assures me, and I believe her. I have to believe what’s left of our family will make it through the coming rebellion-made storm.

I feel rather than see Ava slide her head closer to mine, sharing my soft buckwheat pillow. Loose strands of her freshly washed hair fall across my shoulder, reminding me of when my own hair was long. Pushing back my trimmed bangs, I turn to my sister, trying not to memorize her face the way our father did when we said our last goodbye.

We close our eyes and pretend to sleep until our minutes are up and my watch says 5:00 a.m.

“See you soon,” Ava tells me, our traditional parting words before separating for school.

I tuck my hand into hers. She squeezes so hard it hurts my heart.

Never goodbye.

“See you soon,” I whisper back.

OWEN

A sewer rat. That’s what I am right now. On my trek back to the hideout, I ran into a gaggle of State Guards and needed a place to lie low. I panicked, okay? I’m still getting used to the whole my-face-is-on-the-Wanted-List thing. So it’s been the sewer life for me the past two-plus hours.

Not a very glamorous induction into the rebellion, I’ll admit. But hey, at least I haven’t been caught—I’m doing better than Ava and Mira. As far as I know, they’re still locked up somewhere in Canada.

Speaking of the twins, I already lost my Goodwin mask. It fell into a drain and floated away down the nasty channel water, never to return. Whoops.

It feels like I’ve waited long enough down here. I mean, I think so. But then again, I’ve never hidden in a sewer from the Guard before.

“The future waits for no one,” I jog my own memory.

I wonder what Amelia and the other Code Cogs think of my new criminal status. Are they jealous? Horrified? Enthralled?

Personally, I’m feeling a whole lot of one thing: terror.

Well, I’m back.

I should get a gold medal in power walking. Sprinting when a rebellion’s on the loose is a big no-no, you see.

Two miles in under fifteen minutes. Dry heaving and guzzling air, but I’m still breathing free in the fresh, precarious hours following Rayla’s late-night wake-up call.

On national. Damn. News.

No one else appears to be surveilling the house but me.

If the government knew Rayla was here—and me, I think with a bit too much vainglory—they wouldn’t be subtle about it. Scent Hunters, UAV drones, a battalion of State Guards would all be descending on this place like vultures on a carcass.

From my lookout spot, the house appears just how I left it before sundown: quiet, dark, and, to all outside appearances, forgotten. An area of only five hundred square feet is now the most dangerous spot in the entire three-odd million square miles that make up our too-big-for-its-own-good country. It’s also the safest, however, for a marked fugitive like me. Those inside could be my only allies and protection. I just have to make Rayla let me back in.

Since my wanted photo made its debut tonight—did they have to use the one of me in my dweeby Kismet uniform?—I figured I couldn’t go running back to my parents. They’ve probably disowned me by now, if not publicly, then to themselves. They always wished they had a second child. Not that my mom or dad would ever say that out loud, because that would be unpatriotic. But it’s obvious they think they came out losers in the breeding lottery, ending up with me. A kid who won’t carry on the “Hart” family name the way they demand that I should.

Stop idling and find Rayla!

This feels like my own personal Judgment Day. My world as I knew it has ended, and it’s now whether or not this bonkers old woman will forgive my desertion and take me in or leave me out here to die. I like to think I can handle myself, but the key to survival is knowing your limits. One weaponless teen against millions doesn’t sound like a fun time.

I sneak out from the shed I’ve been hiding in—where I’ve also stashed my car—about a quarter mile from the house. Figured I should keep both my getaway and my selling point close: I have the transportation Rayla needs to get around. I’m an asset. I’m useful.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

It’s a challenge to make my way in the dark. They’ve turned off all the lights, and it’s an obstacle course finding a path through the rotting furniture and shells of vintage cars that make up this junkyard. For a city boy, this is the darkest place I’ve ever been. Seems fitting.

When my feet finally hit the cement stoop, I’ve written a speech in my head that I think will win Rayla over. I don’t know if I believe a word of it, but I don’t know what I believe about a lot of things nowadays.

I knock, wait, then knock again. For a panicked second I think they already left, then the blind rolls up, and there’s Blaise’s face, boogeyman bandana and all. His disturbing smile of flames almost makes me lose my footing, but I stand my ground, even take a step forward. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”