I browse the paper photographs fixed inside simple frames scattered throughout the room. My eyes lock on a picture of my mother displayed above the fireplace across from me, and a chill runs down my spine. Everywhere dust hangs in the air like secrets, and it’s as if I’ve stepped inside a living museum, frozen in another time.

A teakettle goes off with an angry hiss.

I move to the edge of my seat on the worn polyester couch as Rayla emerges from the kitchen, balancing several plates and cups. She sets down the modest spread beside an open notebook, not bothering to cover the cramped, closely written pages, knowing its contents are all safely coded.

“You attempted to track Ava?” Mira asks, joining me on the couch.

She motions to our left—the entire wall is swallowed in investigative work. A large paper map of Texas dominates the center with tiny, pinned flags marking a handful of cities fanning out from Dallas, most leading south to the Island of Houston. Rope strings attached to each marker connect to a section on the wall labeled “Possible Sightings.” Various printed articles chronicle the nationwide manhunt for Darren Goodwin’s criminal daughter in a detailed, careful sequence. There are reports from major metropolises—Anchorage, Portland, Minneapolis, Salt Lake City, Detroit—all promoting my wanted photo, making my head spin. It’s a shock to see my own name plastered across national news.

I scrutinize Rayla’s meticulous web, hoping to find an update on my father’s fate, but my heart sinks when I find nothing but tabloid journalism and fodder for gossipmongers.

“I’ve been searching for you since the moment Darren was arrested,” Rayla says, turning away from her obsessive research to offer us two chipped, clean glasses filled with a mysterious blend of what seems to be herbal tea. “I never dreamed he would actually send you to me.”

She motions toward the tea in an encouraging, yet commanding way. “Drink it. You both look like you haven’t slept in days. I’m sure you haven’t, or you would never have made it this far.”

I give a small nod and raise the cup to my nose, expecting to breathe in the soothing notes of chamomile or the powerful stench of valerian root. Instead I’m met with an earthy, bitter scent that I can’t identify. Taking a cautious sip, I’m suddenly aware how utterly exhausted I am.

I close my eyes, enjoying the hot liquid dance inside of me. Its tranquility moves from my throat down to my chest, settles for a time in my stomach, then spreads throughout my whole body before finally taking root in my toes. My aching shoulders sink into the lumpy cushions, but I’m jolted painfully back to attention with Mira’s blunt words.

“Our father said you were dead,” she says, refusing Rayla’s tea.

I place my cup back onto the table. Mira stares at the woman like a wary interrogator as Rayla sits in an armless upholstered chair across from us.

“Your father was right. I am dead,” she says. “Well, Rayla Cadwell is.”

Lifting her hand to her rectangular face, she strokes her straight-edged nose, high cheekbones, and square jawline.

“A new face,” Rayla says. “New prints.” She holds up her open palm and glides her thumb along each of her fingertips.

I watch, bewildered, as my grandmother rolls up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal an elaborate snake tattoo coiled around her right wrist. Its diamond-patterned body slithers up her arm and disappears beneath her dark shirtsleeve, every other scale a faded yellow.

The old man on the rail also had a tattoo.

“A new microchip,” Rayla says, drawing attention to the soft skin of her inner wrist. “Rayla Cadwell is untraceable. I’m dead to the system, reborn as Jane Wilson.”

“I don’t understand. How is that possible? The government—” I begin.

“The government may always be watching, but they do not always see,” Rayla declares.

“Counterfeit microchips don’t exist,” Mira says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Just like twins don’t exist?” Rayla says.

Mira shuts her mouth, momentarily bereft of a response. Fascinated that Rayla, too, has found a way to outplay the government, I can’t help but lean forward in my seat.

“Why did you go into hiding?” I ask.

“Retirement protocol for all former leaders.”

Mira and I exchange perplexed glances.

Rayla tightens her lips in obvious disapproval. “Darren really kept both of you ignorant, didn’t he?” she says, a sharpness edging into her voice. “Resist much, obey little. You were speaking the words of the Common.”

Mira shifts in her seat next to me, her brow furrowed either in confusion at Rayla’s revelations or in anger at another one of our father’s secrets. I can’t tell which without meeting her eyes.

“The Common? How come we’ve never heard the name before?” I say, choosing confusion for myself.

“The NSA, the news media, the military, the president . . . every powerful agency and official participated in the cover-up of the people’s rebellion. I was only six years old, but I knew what was happening. My parent’s generation watched helplessly as one constitutional right after another was taken from them—replaced with microchips, surveillance, and oppression.”

“But how could the government get away with it? The people must have fought back,” I say.

“Fear,” Rayla answers.

Mira shifts in her seat, uneasy.

“The government used fear as its weapon—exploiting the fallout from the climate crisis to take control from its citizens,” Rayla continues. “The Common rose up to overthrow the regime that was quickly turning America into a brutal militarized state—a far cry from our leader’s declaration that we still remained an elected ruling body of the people, by the people.”

Rayla lets out a scornful sigh and pops her knuckles to calm her impatience. The familiar gesture jars me as much as the shocking statements she’s claiming. It runs in the family, I think with a strange thrill.

“And what happened to the Common? Where is it now?” Mira asks.

“Underground,” Rayla says. “The government was successful in their unwavering determination to bury the very idea of its existence. The Common was censored across the country—news reports, the Internet, the arts. Its name has been completely wiped clean from history. People became afraid to even whisper the name aloud in their own homes, terrified of being overheard by hidden surveillance and branded outright as a traitor.”

My grandmother speaks with a passionate, quiet voice, forcing me to move in closer to make sure I don’t miss a single word.

“The Common remains alive only where the government could never hope to censor,” she says, placing her hand over her chest. “Inside of those who still resist.”

She holds no apprehension of speaking the name—I feel a sort of bold energy emanating from her every time she says the words aloud.

“Were our parents members of the Common?” I ask, drawing from her courage.

It seems outrageous that our father would involve himself with such a dangerous cause. He is—was—an important member of Governor Roth’s staff and the protector of our momentous secret. The carefulness of his character would never allow it, the People’s Champion or not. But the dinner party. The journal.