A voice drifts up from the lake, its nearness sobering me. For the plan to work, the world needs to believe I’m dead. But if I stick to the plan I can never go back. That truth should terrify me, but I’m already overwhelmed. Besides, there’s nothing left to go back to. Not without Adam. He was the only one who made me feel like I mattered. Breathing deep, I heave myself to my feet and drag myself deeper into the woods. I have no home. I have to keep going.

The old me would have ordered a car to drive me from Lake Tahoe to the Sequoia National Forest, but the Disconnects offered me refuge on the condition I wouldn’t be tracked. Starting now, I’m invisible. They were supposed to send a guide, but he never showed up, and it’s pure luck I stumble upon the bikes, sneakers, and hooded sweatshirt hidden behind a tree. Taking it as a sign I’ve made the right decision, I yelp. Choking back the cry, I tug the sweatshirt over my dress with shaking hands. In the pocket I find a tube of glittery gold paint and draw a haphazard zigzag over half my face to disguise my identity from facial-recognition cameras.

The mark of a Disconnect.

Putting my hood up, I hit the trail. Don’t think. Just go. My muscles scream, but I push forward, praying for momentum to carry me. Luckily, I’m headed downhill, and I focus on pedaling. If the explosion sinks in, my legs will cease to move.

But even the ringing in my ears can’t silence the screams.

It’s six long miles to the abandoned strip mall where Allard is waiting. Despite my pounding headache, I go as fast as I can, knowing the risk she’s taking to rescue me. When my Jell-O legs thrust into the drive, she’s standing next to a black hunk of metal that must have been stolen from an antique car museum. Silver letters read “Rambler” across the grill.

For a master thief meant to blend in, Allard is stunning, with a collection of silver and white beads dripping from her forehead. At the sight of her red hair and dangerous figure, I burst into tears.

She wraps me up in a brief hug. “You’re alone,” she whispers before tugging open the heavy car door and strapping me into the musty backseat. “What happened to your contact? Is he…”

“I’m not sure. He never showed up.” My scorched throat strains against the words. Tears roll hot and fast over my cheeks, and I hiccup.

The color drains from her face, but it’s the only indication she’s worried about my contact. Her voice remains firm. “Okay. It’s okay. Keep your head down.” She closes me inside the car before throwing the bike into the trunk and getting into the driver’s seat.

I press my cheek to the cracked vinyl, my vision blurring as she turns the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, and relief vibrates through me. I made it.