“Delaware.” I sit with the word for a bit, thinking on where exactly the state is on the map. “Listen, I’m just a fledgling, but from what I can tell, with Operation Flip the Freakin’ Senators . . . the Common wants to unite the states.” Rayla doesn’t contradict me, so I keep going. “That all sounds well and good, but how will they . . . we . . . get people from the South or the West Coast to give two shits about people in Delaware?”

Rayla smiles. “It’s written in our people’s DNA,” she explains patiently. “We are still the United States. We just have to remind the people of that.”

When Rayla says it, it seems so simple. Wake the people up.

Sleep starts to pull me under, and I try to fight it. I’m not sure why, but it’s always felt like a point of weakness to get caught sleeping in public—a baby who needs his nap. Blaise doesn’t have a problem with it—he’s snoring like one of those bulldogs people used to own.

I’m just going to rest my eyes, I tell myself. Next thing I know I rouse with a start. Chunks of time must have passed. I’m drooling.

I pick up the conversation like I never left it.

“Ava and Mira share DNA.” I say the first thing that pops into my mind. It’s written in our people’s DNA.

No response.

“Did you really not know?” I ask Rayla. “Did you really not know Ava had a twin?” She probably won’t answer, but I give it a go anyway. People tend to be more open to spilling their guts when they’re sleep deprived.

“No,” she says, her smile gone. “I learned the truth only days before the world did.”

“But you helped get them to Canada,” I continue, sitting up in my seat.

“I got them to Montana,” Rayla corrects me. “They got themselves the rest of the way.”

“What are they like?” I try not to sound too interested. I shrug. “I mean, was it crazy seeing twins for the first time?”

Rayla grimaces. She plays it off as pain from her wound, but I can tell there’s something more there. A deeper pain she doesn’t want to show me. I look away, pretending I didn’t notice. It’s like I saw her naked.

“I had seen twins before that day.”

What? There are more? It’s impossible for me to downplay my shock. “Did you and the Common hide another set of twins?”

“No.”

At first I think that’s all she’ll reveal, but she continues. “I made a choice I’ve regretted every second of my days.”

I make myself look at her while she shares her pain.

“If only I’d been braver,” Rayla finishes, her firm voice breaking.

I have no idea what she’s talking about; she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. “If you’re not brave, then the word doesn’t exist.”

Taking her eyes off the road, Rayla the Slayer stares at me raw and unguarded. I suddenly feel very adult.

“I gave up my daughter. I let the government take my second-born.”

Is she telling me she had twins? That must have been back in the early decades of the Rule of One. Back when the main job description of the Family Planning Director was to track down and “take care of” illegal children. Gluts.

My mind is blown. Ava and Mira’s mother was a twin. Twins having twins. Not even the deepest pits of the Dark Web hide any trace of this truth.

Rayla doesn’t seem to require a response from me, which is good, because I’m clueless what to say. I mean, how does someone respond to that? I’m sorry just doesn’t seem to cut it. Rather than offer up useless apologies for an evil someone else did, I decide to trade hurts.

“I didn’t get to tell my parents goodbye,” I say. “I left them in Detroit, and now the Guard is probably on them because of what I’m doing. I don’t think they’ll survive without me.” I keep going. It just spills out. “My mom and dad don’t need me, only my Kismet earnings. They couldn’t care less about their actual flesh-and-blood kid. I’m only worth what I can give them . . . You know what? I don’t think they ever once told me they love me.”

It’s the first time I’ve admitted this. Rayla nods, telling me she heard me. I feel lighter.

Rayla wipes at her eyes with her shoulder. I pretend not to notice. “My daughter Lynn was a songbird.” Her smile’s back. “So are Ava and Mira.”

Ava’s face flares up in my mind, the image seared there like a photograph. I’d like to hear her sing.

. . . I hope I didn’t say that out loud.

“Finish your song?” Rayla asks me.

“Sure.” Clearing my throat, I resume the cornball tune, really getting into it.

Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii . . .

A few states trip me up, but Rayla helps with the tricky ones. She even joins in, drumming out the rhythm on the wheel. Rayla’s pretty good. Awesome actually. She sounds like she was in a band once. The idea of drumsticks in Rayla’s hands rather than a gun is an entertaining one for sure.

When the song’s done, I start again from the top. I nail it on my second try, all fifty-one divided territories of the United States.

“Wake up, Rayla,” I shout from the dusty front porch of our Colorado safe house northeast of Denver. “Your Cavalry has arrived.”

What must be thirty cars, all definitely stolen, charge through the wrought-iron gate of Legendary Ranch, the tires sending a sandstorm of dirt whipping into the air in their wake.

They came. Before we left our hideout in Michigan this morning, Rayla sent out a message, and here they are.

A driver at each emergency wheel, the cars glide to a dramatic stop in front of the ranch house. Two perfect rows are on display like it’s a private auto show, with high-rises from the distant capital as the backdrop.

What an entrance.

Rayla jumps to her feet. It took a hell of a lot of insisting, but I finally managed to convince her she needed rest—she drove the entire fourteen hours to get us here, and it showed. True to form, she flat-out refused to let me take the wheel or to use the autonomous driving system at all. But I felt a sense of honor when she closed her eyes next to me on the porch swing and fell asleep, leaving me to stand lookout alone.

She’s finally starting to trust me. Why does that matter to me so much? Half the time I’m still trying to convince myself that I have it in me to become a rebellion member. That I didn’t just hitch along for the ride because I had no better offers.

“Stay on the porch,” Rayla says, resting her hand on my shoulder. I think she’s using me as a support railing to help her stand, but then I feel a tiny squeeze before she lets her hand drop, heading for the stairs.

Blaise crops up from the house—he’s been in there since we got here, doing whatever it is that Blaise does in his downtime. Which is probably just pace around with twitchy fingers—Rayla made him leave all his fancy tech toys behind.

“Whoa,” he says, staring at the fresh reinforcements gathered in front of the house.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, moving to stand beside him at the top of the porch’s steps. “Six of those cars, the sleek silver and black ones with the electric-blue trim, are Kismet models, from the auto factory I used to work at. I helped program the autonomous system.” Kind of.