His fingers catch in my tangled hair as he tucks it beneath the hat. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed it’s knotted or annoyed he’s so rough. His focus is tight, intense. I can’t look at him. I squeeze my gut and try not to shudder every time his thumb sweeps along my neck, my ear. He breathes through his nose. Short, rhythmic bursts. His breaths are accelerated, but not labored.

“I’m not sure if I should be more scared of someone recognizing me or of wearing their things you just stole.” I mean to break the tension, but my voice sounds strangled.

His expression shifts from intense to cold, metallic. He stares at me for several seconds, letting me feel his glare. “It’s crucial no one recognizes you.”

My breath gets trapped in my throat.

He grabs my hand, scans the hallway, and pulls me behind him.

When we enter the Grand Lobby, his eyes shift around. An older, well-dressed couple circles the opening in the center of the room. They lean over the brass railing, peering down at the floor below. A few others sit on benches lining the wall. One woman takes pictures of the ceiling with her phone. Everyone here is too old for the Swarm.

As we pass the marble help desk, neither librarian looks up. No one here gives us a second glance. We walk down another long hallway, toward the “L” platform. I reach for my CTA card in my back pocket when suddenly he yanks my arm, swinging me through a glass door. We land in some empty conference room with long tables and chairs and no one to stop him or help me. He spins me around, and again I’m thrown against the wall, my back thudding. This time, he leans in. His forearms press the wall around my head. He drops his face near mine. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. My stomach flips. His lips start to move, and I’m hyperaware of the space shrinking between us.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

His head stays bent near my face, while his eyes watch the glass door. His breath, warm against my cheek, quickens. Just past the glass door, a group of people laugh and jeer. Four of them, at least—maybe more. Their voices come from the entrance near the “L.” His body tenses, his expression severe. The jeering gets louder as the group gets nearer and then seems to fade again as they pass.

His eyes flicker to mine, but I can tell he doesn’t see me. With his deadpan expression, he seems to listen for what’s happening outside.

He grabs his phone from his back pocket and flips through it. “There’s a Brown Line train coming in two minutes. Ready?”

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.