My luggage was picked up yesterday by a courier—Kor suspects they wanted to search through my stuff—so all I have with me is my backpack. My phone is hidden at the bottom, stashed in a pouch of tampons. I wasn’t explicitly told not to bring it, though it was made clear there won’t be cell service, but it still feels like contraband. The satellite phone stashed beside it is definitely contraband. One of the Families’ tech experts had flown in from Belgium just to give it to me and show me how to use it.

I thought meeting a tech expert would mean I’d get all kinds of cool spy gadgets, but nope. Just a satellite phone that I have been told to never ever use. Apparently they’re worried that it is insecure and that the signal can be intercepted, but they want me to have an emergency way to contact them if need be. When I’d asked about spy cameras and recording devices, the tech guy had said the camera on my cell phone would be perfectly sufficient. When I asked about night-vision glasses, he asked why I would have any need to see in the dark instead of flicking the light switch. What a lack of imagination.

“I’m so glad this has all worked out and that your family approved,” Michael says as we head west, weaving our way around a mountain of garbage bags.

“Approve of a full scholarship to an elite private school? It was an easy sell.” I don’t meet his eyes as the first of many lies rolls off my tongue. “The website and phone calls were very convincing.”

“Yes, we have a provincial office that takes care of cover stories.” Michael pauses at the corner, dutifully waiting for the walk signal despite there being no oncoming traffic. I attempt to suppress my New Yorker instinct to rush.

“Are there many? Recruits who need a cover?”

“Not many in recent years. Faking deaths is our most common method.” Well, that’s morbid. The signal turns white, and we continue walking. “It’s not encouraged for recruits to keep ties with the provincial world, so death is usually the simplest solution.”

“But I’ll be allowed to come back and visit?” My heart tugs with the need for this assurance.

“Since you are young and in danger, an exception is being made for you.”

I’m not sure where I expected him to take me, probably an airport, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the subway. And yet here we are, on the crowded 6 train platform headed downtown. It’s much warmer down here than outside, and my winter clothes are stifling me. I feel like I’ve been microwaved—parts of me too hot and parts of me still thawing from the cold. I won’t miss the temperature idiosyncrasies of the subway platforms while I’m gone.