It takes all her effort to keep from cursing herself for underestimating him. But how could she have known he would piece things together so quickly? She still can’t figure out what he’s after. But what if it’s as simple as a place in Alabast? It’s an attractive enough life. She looks around at her room and thinks about the rest of her apartment: the spacious living room with its high-backed sofas and minimalist-patterned cushions, the kitchen connected to it, and the bathroom large enough to do a cartwheel in. It would be attractive to any migrant, especially one fleeing war. But she has tried to chase him away, and rather than look for easier marks, he has dug his heels in. And why lie about his origins? Why not just say that he is fleeing conflict? Maybe he is worried that, because the war is ended, his application for asylum will be denied and he will have to languish in the Jungle before being deported. She feels as though she is on the cusp of figuring out his motive, figuring out what he is trying to get and what he’s willing to do to get it, but that moment when it all clicks is just out of reach. Whenever she tries to grab it, it slips further and further away. So she stares at the ceiling and waits and hopes it will fall into her head.

Answers come to prepared spirits, a professor told her.

Her wallpaper TV flashes with a broadcast from the main Colony news station. A light-skinned woman in a blazer and red blouse is talking while a chyron rolls by below: NEW IMMIGRATION POLICY PASSED BY LEGISLATIVE COUNCIL TO GO INTO EFFECT TOMORROW. EXPERTS PREDICTING RISE IN DEPORTATION ORDERS.

Is this the answer Ify’s been looking for?

Her Whistle chirps with an incoming call.

She activates it, and before her appears Grace. All the poise and tenderness from earlier is gone, replaced by a jittery, barely restrained urgency. “Doctor, there is an emergency. Your presence is needed in the east wing immediately.”

If Ify is honest with herself, she needs this. Work can distract her from these other worries. It can cocoon her in purpose. Already, she is changing into her hospital outfit. “What’s the emergency? And you don’t have to call me Doctor . . . yet. My licensing exam isn’t until three months after graduation.”

“Well, Doct—I mean, Ms. Diallo. We . . . we’re not quite sure. It’s the refugees. They’re not responding.”

Ify freezes in the act of putting on her hospital coat. “What do you mean not responding?”

“Please come immediately. I will keep this comms channel open as you make your way to the hospital. In the meantime, I’m uploading all the information we have at the moment. But I think it’s best if you see this in person.”