“My parents will be arriving within the hour, in honor of the Paramount’s little soiree.” He stands, his animated hands communicating as much as his lips. “My mother and father like to check up on things, and I like to use things to my advantage.”

Ciro’s eyes swing from Ava’s to mine. “They are bringing with them our most promising ally. The man with enough power to protect you from Governor Roth and his long, brutal reach.”

“President Moore,” Ava says before Ciro can reveal his own big surprise.

The leader of Canada.

“President Moore,” Ciro confirms. He finally stands still, beaming down at the two of us like a knight in his shiny-suited armor.

A rush of blood pounds in my ears, making it hard to hear myself think. I feel light-headed, overwhelmed. Ava takes my hand and squeezes hard. If we can’t go back, we must go forward. Political asylum means safety, immunity, protection from being hunted and thrown back to Texas, left to the mercy of Roth. This is our best chance. A chance for an entire nation, a superpower like Canada, to validate our existence and our cause.

“Does the president know we’re here?” I ask.

“He only knows I have requested a private audience,” Ciro says. “No one in his administration knows you two are here. They know nothing of my ties to the Common.”

“And you trust him?” Ava asks bluntly.

“With my life,” he answers, his voice firm, his eyes sure. A shadow crosses his face, his flashy smile gone. “He saved my family from being deported back to the States when I was a child.”

“So you’re American?” Ava asks.

“I’m a child of American parents. My mother and father, along with my eldest sister, only a newborn when they crossed, made the journey north as climate refugees. Ten generations of Crosses in the state of Florida. Our future swept away by Hurricane Davon.”

Davon. The world’s first Category 6 hurricane.

I should feel sorry for him, but I stop myself. Ciro’s family seems to be doing just fine. More than fine.

“You have a sister?” Ava asks. Siblings. Blood siblings. I can see Ava’s mind working through this. It’s astonishing enough watching Pawel with Ellie.

“Emery told us you were an only son,” I say.

“It must be difficult for your American minds to fathom this, but I am the last of four. Three exemplary older sisters.” Ciro buttons up his jacket and runs his long fingers through his already perfect hair. “Thus nothing much was expected of me . . .” For a moment he’s simply a youngest child desperate for validation.

I can understand that feeling.

So Ciro decided to secretly fund a rebellion for a country he’s never even seen?

Deeper questions burn for my attention—How did the Cross family make it over the border? When was their illegal status discovered? Did their money buy their freedom?—but all my musings quickly fade away. I remember that my father is dead and nothing else matters.

“President Moore is a compassionate man,” Ciro says. His smile is back. He moves closer, the red light of the fire dancing behind him. “The president is a dear friend to our family. He will save you, just as he saved me.”

Save the twins! I remember the roaring chant of our allies, supporters, friends. Maybe he will. Maybe we can stop running.

My feet suddenly feel overused and bone tired, and I wonder how they took me this far. I draw in a deep breath, releasing a mountain of tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. Ava leans back, resting her head against mine, and we hold each other’s weight.

“Okay,” Ava answers for us, popping the knuckles of her right hand. The jerky movements make the black-and-yellow curves of her infinity snake tattoo dance across her wrist. “We will go to your party.”

Ciro nods, bowing formally.

Never must we cease.

Limos and luxury cars line the extensive circular driveway, stuffed with partygoers ready for the welcoming bash. Mrs. and Mr. Cross have already arrived with much fanfare from their son and his doting employees. I wonder if Ciro’s sisters are here.

I hear him get on the microphone, introducing his unwitting parents onto the stage of the overflowing banquet hall, the governor of Alberta and the mayor of Calgary looking on from the front row.

Everything’s falling nicely into place. If only the man of the hour would show.

I look at my watch: 7:30 p.m. He’s late. Ava’s knee bounces furiously, as if she can shake out her anxiety.

“He’ll come,” I say.

From our hideout in the corner of the foyer, shadowed and easily overlooked, we have the best seats in the house. A perfect vantage point to see and be unseen. Ava scans the budding festivities through the glass walls on our left. I keep my eyes on the glass windows straight ahead, seeing past the dazzling flares from the cars’ headlights, holding out for the first glimpse of the president.

A string quartet begins to play, and an electric energy pulsates through the hotel, enlivening the party guests with a giddy exhilaration, and I can’t help but feel it too. Eager, I spring to my feet. I pace up and down our tucked-away corner, checking the time, watching Emery from across the room, waiting on her signal.

“Do you hear that?” Ava asks. She stares up at the ceiling. I move beside her as we listen to the muffled roar of whirling blades slicing the air somewhere above the building.

“A helicopter,” Ava says.

“He’s here.”

We look to Emery, who stands near the entrance, her gaze locked skyward. Guests file past as she removes a headscarf from her pocket, drapes the silk over her distinctive curls, and pulls it into a tight knot at the back of her neck. She folds her right arm over her chest, our cue to move.

I feel, rather than see, Barend steal into place behind us, our long shadow, as we push to the end of the foyer. Pawel detaches himself from the crowd and crosses our path as he follows Emery out the front door. “Lots of luck,” he whispers earnestly. Like luck has anything to do with it. It’s all up to us.

Our target is the oversized clock that consumes the entire wall alongside the vacant concierge desk. Ava stops before the number six, and we slip behind a false door and stride side by side down an empty staff hallway. Three right turns, two left, a final door, and we’re outside.

There are no lights behind the hotel and no people. The night is chilly and moonless, but we find the footpath we were directed to take and make our silent way to the small grove of trees just twenty yards out.

Ten paces into the grove, Ava and I turn from the path and weave through the evergreens until we spot the narrow clearing that is to be our stage. We position ourselves in its center, shoulder to shoulder, and wait. Somewhere to our right, concealed within the trees and darkness, Barend stands guard.

When told of the plan, Emery immediately authorized the private rendezvous. She knows pleading our case face-to-face with the president is the only way. Cameras and screens provide a barrier, Emery said. The media paints you solely as American rebels. Let him see how human you are. With Pawel at her side, Emery is to meet and escort the president here, while Ciro entertains his parents and guests, keeping them safely ignorant inside the banquet hall.

The minutes tick off, and Ava starts to shiver from either the cold or nerves. Or is that me shivering? Ava and I brought no weapons with us, to show good faith. No guns, no knives. Just us, with our naked conviction and hope.