Too restless to sit, I hobble down the back stairs to take out the trash. Glass clinks around the bag, keeping time with my uneven cadence. Each step is awkward, but manageable if I shift my weight to the outer edge of my foot—at least that’s what I tell myself.

I open the door of our heavy wooden gate. I’m about to toss the bag like I do every night when I notice a thick, padded manila envelope lying on top of one of our trash bins.

I look both ways down the narrow drive, stand on my tiptoes to check the neighbors’ yards past the fences. No one is around. The alley is empty.

The package isn’t addressed.

A voice in my head begs me to leave it alone, to dump the trash in someone else’s bin and hide in my house for the rest of the day. It’s late afternoon. Neighbors will be coming home soon. My mom.

Instead, I reach for the envelope, a slight tremor in my hands. I try to convince myself it’s empty—a discarded piece of trash. But as soon as I pick it up, I notice how heavy it is. And it’s sealed.

I throw the trash inside the bin, craning my neck left and right. Still no movement in the alley. The air is stale, warm, still. I wipe my palms on my pajama pants before pulling the seal open and peeking at what’s inside. I can’t tell. I tear the rest open and pull out a black iPad.

My heart thumps. It’s a trap—the Swarm giving me a device so they can record my activity.

But I’m not that naïve. No one is. They’d have to know that.

My back tenses as I press the wake button to light up the screen. A video appears with the words press play projecting across the title page.

My breathing quickens. This has to be a video of me, caught doing something they don’t want me doing. Going to the library? Meeting with Ryan? They’ve seen Emi Vega’s interview and are sending me a message.

Again, the tiny voice in my head begs me to run, to call the cops, to do anything other than follow its instructions.

But it’s a futile argument. There’s no way I’ll walk away now.

I press play.

A figure emerges, heading down the city sidewalk past a stone office building. Four American flags jut from its ledge over a row of giant revolving doors. My stomach makes a slow roll. I recognize him by the way he walks—it’s my dad.

A pang of longing shoots through my chest. On the video, my dad scrolls through his cell with one hand and clutches his messenger bag with the other. His sandy brown hair ripples in the wind.