She removes a gun-like instrument from a clear bowl filled with rubbing alcohol, then loads the sterilized microchip and seizes Ava’s arm. The needle pierces the tender flesh of Ava’s wrist—she barely flinches when Rayla pulls the trigger—implanting the microchip deep under Ava’s skin. After disposing of the needle, Rayla turns to her instrument bag for the final touch.

Her gloved fingers reveal a portable 3D bioprinter, a clunky model I’ve never seen used in our university labs. Holding the printer over my sister’s arm, Rayla scans a slice of Ava’s healthy skin for duplication, then locks the printer onto Ava’s wrist. My sister winces as a laser reopens the scar tissue from the half-healed incision she gave herself the night of our escape, and we both watch engrossed as the bioink begins to print layers of fabricated tissues over the incision, repairing Ava’s damaged skin like magic and concealing any evidence of tampering or wrongdoing.

“This chip is really activated?” Ava asks, inspecting Rayla’s work.

“Both microchips are in the system, linked to thousands of fake metadata records that establish you both as average students from Colorado. The NSA has no reason to monitor these chips,” Rayla says firmly. “And we will give them no cause for suspicion.”

She slips Ava a notecard with handwritten scribbles. “Memorize your new identification.”

From the far side of the table, I make out the first four slanted, nearly illegible lines.

Name: Aeron Rowe

Age: 20

Address: 151 Euclid Avenue, Boulder, CO 80302

“Your wrist,” Rayla demands of me.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask, offering her nothing until she answers.

“North,” Rayla says tersely.

Half of me thinks, That’s too vague. She’s keeping us ignorant. The other half thinks, Who cares. Take the chip.

“Take your freedom,” Rayla tells me, her eyes earnest and clear.

I notice the liver spots on Rayla’s hand have multiplied and spread to her arm, just below the corkscrewed tail of her snake tattoo hidden beneath her jacket. She must paint the blemishes on as a disguise. Or use them as a subliminal message to the Guard, or anyone, that she is fragile and unthreatening. She is clearly neither.

“Will we get new features too?” I ask, unsure how I want her to answer. I touch my nose and cheeks. Ava’s nose and cheeks.

“You’ll hide from surveillance the old-fashioned way,” she answers, nodding to the umbrellas.

I pull up my sleeve and present my right wrist without looking at Ava. I want this moment for myself.

With little observance to the enormity of what is happening, Rayla pricks the needle into my skin. I grit my teeth when she pulls the trigger and the microchip shoots into my wrist, embedding itself inside of me. Covering my imitation.

“Memorize your new identification,” Rayla repeats and hands me my own paper notecard.

Name: Marley Townsend

Age: 19

I stop reading, focused only on the piece of metal that is now fixed beneath my skin. No one could tell by looking at my inner wrist that anything is different or special. The room is the same. The air is the same, and I’m sure the outside world is the same. But I press my thumb over the implant, and I know that it is real.

I have changed and that is everything.

AVA

We wait patiently in a short orderly line to board a massive autonomous bus, its destination sign helpfully announcing “Denver, CO to Casper, WY.” Shivering in the morning light, I stand and listen to a middle-aged couple in front of me chatter excitedly to each other. They are traveling on vacation to some exclusive river lodge—their fishing poles and wildly overdone adventure outfits on full display.

I step forward after a narrow-shouldered youth scans his wrist with a loud ping and enters the double-decker bus. An umbrella shield safely protecting my now-infamous features, I turn my head to check on Mira three strangers behind me, tightly gripping her own surveillance screen. She looks away, feigning an interest in a nondescript building across the street.

A seed of resentment sown the previous night suddenly shoots up and flourishes inside me, heating the back of my neck and stopping my shivering. I spot Rayla furtively surveying the station at the tail end of the line before turning to face the bus. I willfully contain my emotions while the couple ahead of me scans their wrists. A double ping of approval indicates they may board, then it’s my turn to step up to the scanning device.

Instructed by Rayla to be the first to enter, I swipe the counterfeit microchip freshly embedded in my right wrist. My face and body convey full confidence, refusing to betray my internal hesitancy. Does this foreign metal capsule inside me signify I’ve died and become someone new just like Rayla?

Ping. Approved.

As Aeron Rowe from Boulder, Colorado, I enter the crowded bus and quickly discover there are no open seats left on the lower level. Standing by the door, I press up against a woman’s bare knees in the first row, waiting for my sister to board. A display panel on the wall across from me reveals our exact location and route, as well as seat availability. Only two rows are filled on the upper level; when Mira joins me we’ll move to the top together.

A stout man squeezes past me, mumbling a terse complaint at my loitering in the narrow aisle. I shouldn’t be risking attention of any kind, but I won’t allow Mira out of sight even for a moment.

Rayla says we must change our clothing every day to remain inconspicuous. Enveloped in her new taupe scarf, Mira reaches the front of the line and exposes her right wrist to the scanner. My mind fires off possible scenarios that could go wrong: the new microchip is a fake after all . . . the imitation chip she’s worn in her wrist for over eighteen years somehow affected the—

Ping. Approved.

A single twitch of excitement flicks across Mira’s face before she moves into the bus, exuding complete self-confidence in utilizing public transit. She saunters past me like a stranger, headed directly for the winding staircase.

I follow my sister up the stairs and find her seated in the back row by the window. When I take the open space beside her, she places her rucksack between us and turns her body toward the tinted glass, still affecting a keen interest in the structures surrounding the downtown station.

“First stop Cheyenne, Wyoming,” an automated voice rings pleasantly from the speakers. “Please sit back and enjoy your travels.”

Rayla emerges from the staircase and walks down the aisle, covertly examining the passengers one by one. Satisfied the compartment is secure, she takes the seat to my left. The three of us sit together as companions—the strategy being that nothing stands out more than a young girl traveling alone.

With a tranquil beep, the bus rolls silently forward. Mira throws her legs onto the seat back in front of her, exhaling heavily through her nose. She leans her head against the window, her eyes focused on her feet. She pops her knuckle.

“From this distance the mountains look like one enormous tear in the atmosphere,” I say, pointing to the jagged place where the Rocky Mountains appear as a rip across the clear blue sky, fooling the eye. I speak lower than a whisper, ensuring Rayla does not overhear our twinspeak.

“Maybe we’re headed up to live at the peak of the tallest mountain,” I say, and for all I know, we might be. We’re still ignorant of Rayla’s plans, the bus’s destination our only clue.