Ava spares him a final glance, and we flee into the forest.

I . . . I . . . Halton’s voice haunts me through the countless trees. Disappears when I glimpse my first jarring sight of the border wall. Despite myself, my mouth drops at the pure spectacle of it.

“The entrance is farther down—forty yards,” Ava tells me.

A drone hums overhead, hunting somewhere in the distance. The Guard must have found Halton’s body by now. Don’t think of what’s behind. There’s only forward.

By Ava’s side, I push past the tree line into the unsheltered clearing. My hood slides down my tangled hair, but I do not move to cover my face. I don’t have to hide anymore.

I crane my neck, trying to see how far the barrier stretches. It’s endless and dominating. A steel monster guarding an imaginary line. A made-up boundary we’re not supposed to pass.

Ava crouches next to the hole in the wall they said was impenetrable.

“It’s really true,” I breathe.

My sister looks to me, her arm extended, inviting me to freedom. “You first.”

I shove through the narrow crevice, Ava following close behind.

The other side. Canada.

The sun sets behind the trees. Brilliant rays of orange and red ignite everything around me, beckoning us.

Ava rushes to me and embraces me hard. Her fingers dig into my bones as if to check that I am real. Our bodies release a mountain of tension, and our fast breaths harmonize.

“The people know,” I say, searching Ava’s eyes. “They’re rising.”

She smiles. She somehow already knew. It’s written on her face. Beautifully clear.

“We made it, Ava,” I tell her.

She pulls her forehead to mine.

“We made it,” she tells me.

Together we turn to face the vast new country, our hands locked as one.

We run. Not because we have to. But to willfully embrace the unknown.

And to prove we’re still alive.

PART IV

THE COMMON

AVA

Forty miles past the wall.

After breaking through the Canadian forest and trekking all night across grassland, Mira and I survey a highway in the distance. Soft morning light illuminates the two-tiered structure, the top layer a series of interconnected parks and walkways, while the bottom bustles with autonomous cars. The four-lane road is designed with colorful trees and flowers flanking rows of streamlined buildings. The great suburban sprawl of Lethbridge, Alberta, lies beyond. Despite the congestion, the energy is calm. Almost peaceful.

Calgary and the Common are less than two hours away if we can get one of those cars.

Side by side, we set out toward the road, me still keeping my hood up while Mira keeps her bare head exposed, her scarf left in the dirt next to Halton. Another person dead. And the toll will just keep rising.

Mesmerized, we walk down the raised pedestrian passageway, glancing at the local shops and restaurants. The paths are clean and orderly, decorated with plants instead of garish advertisements and propaganda. I see no cameras or surveillance of any kind. No one uses umbrella shields or masks to hide. No Guard stalks the streets.

I suddenly realize how dirty we must look. How wild. Lowering my hood, I smooth down my hair.

“Ava, look.” Mira points to a family of five walking by: a mother, father, and their two sons and daughter.

My heart twists for what could have been for my own family. But I also see the future in that united family. The Rule of One oppressing us no longer.

A flashing blue light catches our eyes. It’s a kiosk with a bright digital sign: “Ride Center.” Two single-file rows of sleek compact cars are parked along the edge of the street, simply waiting for riders and destinations.

I approach the first car and circle it, looking for a way in. There’s no door handle or obvious way of unlocking the car.

“Door, open,” Mira commands.

Nothing happens.

“How do we wake it up?” Mira gives the car a quick kick.

“Car, take me to 968 Paramount Point,” I try.

Suddenly the pavement lights up below our feet with a mat blinking the word “Welcome.” The entire left side of the car yawns open, inviting us inside.

“My name is Sylvia. Please make yourself at home.”

It’s like I just stepped into someone’s living room. The seat wraps around the interior like a sectional couch, and there’s a small foldable table on each end. I scan a large screen and find endless professional and entertainment resources. There’s even a miniature food printer in the corner. You could run an entire country inside this car.

“Please select your method of payment,” Sylvia hums.

“Cash?” Mira ventures.

A cash slot lights up. So does our amazement.

“The citizens aren’t microchipped,” I say, taken by surprise.

I slide in the dollar amount owed, and the car seals itself closed. I take a seat across from Mira, and our eyes meet as we soundlessly glide toward a place where Rayla promised we would find friends.

“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the car tells us.

Mira and I stare out at the trees that blur into buildings as they speed by our glass window.

This past week, the longest of my life, races by in my mind, one event after another, just as quickly as the miles to our destination. The car settles into a quiet stillness.

Sylvia must sense our moods, because she asks, “How about some tunes?”

An upbeat rhythm fills the car. Soft red and purple strobe lights dance in quick, joyful circles.

I smile. It’s so surreal.

“You have arrived at your destination,” Sylvia says.

The music and lights cut off. Mira and I look out the window at Paramount Point in silent expectation. I find an elegant ten-story early-twentieth-century building staring down at me. A white sign reads “Paramount Point Hotel” just above a yellow door.

“The rebellion’s based out of a hotel?” Mira says, doubtful.

Sylvia’s left side opens, and we step onto the mildly trafficked sidewalk. Before I can make sure we’re in the right place, the car drives away with a cheerful good-bye.

Mira and I turn to face the brick building. As if on cue, the yellow door unlatches and a woman walks out. She’s tall, simply dressed, with dark curly hair and features that project intelligence. A young man, about my age, pops up behind her, and another man gathers at her side.

All wear expressions of anticipation. Of hope.

“Ava and Mira Goodwin,” the woman says. “We’re pleased to finally meet you.”

A glass ceiling towers high above the lobby atrium. My eyes quickly take in what must be a hundred doors, ten hotel rooms to each level. The design and furnishings are neat and efficient. Unassuming.

Dozens of people walk about the lobby, entering and exiting a bank of elevators at the far wall. More stroll along the various corridors up above. Those near us glance at Mira and me with curiosity. Are they all rebellion members or merely guests? How many are American refugees like Mira and me?

“So the hotel’s a front for the Common’s headquarters?” I ask, turning to face the small group gathered loosely around us. The woman introduced herself as Emery, who appears to be the brains behind everything; Pawel, the young-but-eager man who appeared at her side; and Barend, who must be the broad-shouldered muscle of the group.