Tonight, those humans—aspiring artists from the Maker caste, like Tyson, who act as docents in addition to chaperoning the artwork—will hopefully be distracted by their very rich—and increasingly sweaty—guests. On my way inside the museum, I cut the wires that lead to the air conditioning units from both the solar system and the backup batteries, and I’m hoping this hot August night will buy me extra time. Even though the guards will be busy with the cooling systems, they’ll come looking for me when I can’t be placed or matched to anyone on the guest list. Tyson told me they review the reports at a quarter after every hour, so I know the next check will be at 9:15. I’m hoping my air conditioning stunt will stall the inspection, though I can’t count on it. Ideally, if all goes as planned, I’ll be long gone by then.

If all goes as planned. I nearly snort. It never does. Expect the unexpected. Somehow, knowing that things beyond my control will happen, that I’ll have to stay on my toes, that I won’t let myself become complacent, unknots my spine and I swallow the laughter.

The elevator arrives and the doors slide open, revealing a blessedly empty car with drab gray walls. I step inside and press a gloved finger to the button for the first floor. The doors close and the car sails skyward, my blood pressure mounting with each passing second until my sinuses clear, a signal that adrenaline is kicking in. Finally.

I slip my purse strap over my head, adjusting it so it easily falls off my shoulder, and when the doors open again, I’m met with a blast of heat and the chattering din of a cocktail party. The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Sandusky Street, casting groups of fancy people sipping cocktails out of Campbell’s Soup cans, for the benefit of the UPMC Children’s Hospital, in an orange glow. No guards are waiting, guns drawn, to escort me off the premises and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Willa takes hold as I exit the elevator. She’s pins and needles pricking the muscles in my face, coming to life. Her presence heavy in my forehead, I look through her eyes and spot Tyson right away. Most of the color in the stark lobby comes from the colorful pop art lining the walls but with his messy, bleached-white hair sticking up on all sides, and wearing a mustard button-down shirt with giant white cuffs and burgundy leather pants, it’s as if Andy Warhol himself is leaning casually against a cement column in the middle of the party. If Andy Warhol was in his early twenties and staring off into space, probably scrolling through the Network on his AMPs, that is.