I squeeze the sides of my head as if that will stop the paranoia. I need to focus. The computer that matches that IP address. It’s here. I need to find it. And once I do, I’ll figure out the very small detail of how that’s going to lead me to whoever sent the tweet.

Something has to come of this.

Standing, I flip my chair away from the table so it’s facing the center of the room, making it harder to sneak up behind me. As I do, someone slams books on a table. I grab my bag, ready to make a run for it before noticing some weedy-looking kid throwing his own little tantrum at an empty table near the edge of the room. It takes several seconds before I’m able to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the chair while Weedy Boy makes a big show of ripping open his book bag and yanking out materials in some passive aggressive way to get back at life’s unfairness. Any other day, the scene would be comical.

I exhale, trying to release the tension pulsing throughout my body. But as I scan the room, I notice the entire floor is packed. Eighty, maybe a hundred desktops—most of them occupied—line tables stretching across the center. Bordering the computers are smaller tables, also full, and on the far side of those, clusters of bookshelves.

Pressure squeezes my chest like a blood pressure cuff, cutting off circulation one second at a time. I didn’t expect so many people. The low drone of their keyboard clicking becomes deafening, maddening.

And then somewhere from the middle of the pit, a phone rings. It’s piercing. Heads snap toward the intrusion. I watch for more chimes, more blue lights, more calls. I pore over the patrons to see who else is checking a phone and who is about to stand, spin, and swarm me.

I close my eyes, and lock my knees to prevent collapsing.

This is not Navy Pier.

Just a crowded room. A phone.

These people are not about to kill me. They are students completing homework, lone adults seeking quiet refuge, study groups carrying on like it doesn’t matter that the Death Mob reemerged and nearly killed someone a few days ago.

I push the fear back down the black, twisty tunnel. Get it together, Finch. I can’t flip out like this every time I see a crowd or hear a phone ring. I live in Chicago.

“You look so familiar.”

I swing my bag on instinct and find a man in a plaid shirt with a hooked, pockmarked nose sitting at a nearby table.

“Sorry.” He smiles derisively. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” His fingers curl like talons around his book. His eyes bug out like some predatory bird’s.

“It’s fine,” I whisper.

I can’t stop looking at his hands.