Wombat weaves through the maze to get to a table in the corner. He leans over it and pokes at a smooth, black screen. “See this scanner here? I need you to each put your hand on it, one at a time.”

I’m the closest, so I step up and put my hand on the screen. It makes a little beep and lights up as it scans my palm.

“All right, hang on.” He touches something on the screen and then stares off into space. After a moment I realize he must be doing something on his flexi. It’s creepy because he looks like he’s concentrating, but it’s impossible to tell what he’s really doing. I hope we can trust this guy. For all we know, he could be scamming us. We don’t have any proof he can actually supply us with real fake IDs. We just have Future-Adam’s word to go on.

Wombat turns to something that looks like a computer printer, and a second later a thin, clear sheet of plastic slides out.

“Here you go,” he says, handing it to me. There’s a barely visible cutout of a thumbprint for each finger. “Put these on. They should have your new identity all set up. And whatever you do, don’t lose them.”

While he scans Zoe’s hand, I peel off the prints, which are vaguely sticky, and put them on each fingertip. They seem to be made of the same material as the flexis and sink into my skin, almost undetectable.

He repeats the process, making IDs for the rest of the team, and then creates our fake bank account. The whole thing takes way too long, and I pace back and forth outside the garage, checking my watch every two minutes. Our time in the future is dwindling, and we still don’t have any answers.

“How much longer?” I ask.

Wombat grins at me. “Hey, you can’t rush genius.”

I roll my eyes and turn away, practically running right into Adam. There’s an awkward pause as he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and I dodge his gaze, hoping to avoid any conversation.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I push my hair out of my face, needing to do something with my hands. “Just ready to get going.”

He continues to watch me, confusion written all over his face. But I’m saved from any more discussion when the others finally emerge from the garage. We thank Wombat for his help, and Zoe gives him a quick hug.

As we walk back to the car, I ask her, “What did you say to him?”

“I invited him to dinner tomorrow,” she says and then sighs. “He’s a nice guy. I feel bad I lied to him.”

“You did the right thing. We had to get those IDs.” But I feel a little guilty about it too.