“Some dusty old library,” Igby replies, shrugging. He points up to the cathedral-style domed glass roof. “That gives us a three-sixty view. If Happy sends any of its minions our way, we’ll know about it.”

I squint up to the roof and see Akimi sitting in a makeshift crow’s nest. It appears to be made out of an office chair suspended by a dozen or so ropes. Akimi spins slowly around, scanning the city.

“Wow,” I say.

“And that,” Igby says, pointing to a brand-new, pristine Volta Category 9 sitting in the middle of the mosaic tiled floor, “is my baby. And our getaway plan.”

“You sure do love flying cars through glass roofs,” I say.

“It’s both badass and a fuckload of fun, Luka,” he says, grinning at me. “Although I might have to replace it with something bigger now that there are more of us.”

I turn slowly around, taking in the place. All the windows (barring the glass domed roof) have been covered by metal sheeting that has been riveted to the walls. The doors too are barred shut in this same manner, but I’m not really focusing on the safety features; my eyes are wandering over the shelves of books. A section marked REFERENCE, one marked CHILDREN’S, another reads SCI-FI, MYSTERY, FANTASY, there’s a door marked PERIODICALS, a massive semicircular desk near the front entrance, and a rack full of ancient graphic novels, and that’s just the first floor.

“How did you find this place?” I ask, unable to hide the awe from my voice.

“We sort of stumbled upon it when we were escaping after Midway,” Igby replies. “She was already here, though.” He points to the doctor who operated on me. She has created a bed for herself using hundreds of books and is snoring loudly. I see half an Ebb patch stuck to her wrist.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“She is the mad doctor. Dr. Abril Ortega. She loves Ebb and is constantly high, but she’s a great surgeon. She removed all our Panoptics.”

“You found her here?” I ask.

“Yep, stoned out of her mind. She kept saying, ‘They’ll kill me for what I’ve done. I destroyed nearly all of it.’ We still don’t know what the hell she was talking about. I don’t think she even knows.”

The doctor stirs at this and opens one eye. “Are you creepy little boys watching me sleep?”

“No,” I say, taken aback by the bleary accusation.

“Why not? Am I not beautiful?”

“I … I …” I look to Igby, who shrugs. “You are beautiful, but I wasn’t watching you sleep.”

“Good,” she says, turning over to face the other way. “Watching someone sleep is not romantic. Besides, I’m thirty years old—far too old for you, little boy.”