“Look at this view,” the man says to his wife. They point out buildings like they’ve never seen skyscrapers before.

Tourists.

I access Twitter, wondering if the Swarm is stupid enough to use it again. It takes twenty-six seconds to find what Adam found. #14.10.20.1930.

My breath hitches. It’s missing numbers. It has the time, 7:30, but latitude and longitude aren’t there. I fumble through my bag for a pen and write it down in the corner of my book. Flipping to the back, I record the tweet’s time stamp and username—a random series of numbers and letters.

The car releases a tiny whine as it glides across the wheel’s climax. I throw my book back into my bag and lean my head against the gondola’s glass encasement. How will the Swarm know where to attack without a location? More importantly, how will I record it?

“Maybe she knows.” The woman speaks up. “Where can we find the best deep-dish pizza? We want something authentic,” she says in her cheery voice, overarticulating her words.

“I hate deep-dish,” I say, trying to shut her up.

“Really? I thought all Chicagoans—”

“Gluten allergy.” I have no such thing.

“Oh, bless your heart.” She isn’t deterred. “Which one do city people like the most?”

We begin our second rotation—seven minutes left. I bend over the phone, deepening my concentration. “They all taste the same.”

Without pausing, she turns to her husband. “I wouldn’t have thought that. How about that one place we passed in the cab . . .”

I don’t listen to the rest. I scour Twitter for any hint of the location. I search every social media site I can think of. Drowning out the ridiculousness of their conversation, I scan through pictures, posts, gifs, videos, but before I know it, the seven minutes have passed and the alarm is going off and I haven’t found the slightest hint of where the attack will take place.

I erase my search history and set the phone on the corner of the bench, careful not to let the couple see what I’ve done. As we near the platform, they scoot to the edge of their seats. The doors open. The attendant with bushy sideburns and a Blackhawks hat holds his hand out for them. I make sure the phone is tucked into the corner before stepping off, but the attendant blocks my path, signaling for me to stop. He smiles. “I thought I recognized you,” he says. The doors close.

I bang on the glass. “Open up.”

I turn to exit out the other side, but Gray Fleece Attendant leans in. “Your next ride’s been taken care of.”