“Good afternoon,” the driver says, looking through the rearview mirror. He has a foreign accent and Lynell wonders what made him move here. Acquiring citizenship has gotten more complicated every year and new citizens can never Register anyone, but they can be Registered. It doesn’t make for a very appealing immigration.

“Château Hotel?” the driver asks. Price nods, and Lynell fixes her eyes on him.

“Stop staring,” he says.

Lynell doesn’t look away. “Were you hired?” she asks. She’s heard of people selling their Registration for hundreds of thousands to a few million dollars. It’s like being a legal hitman just once in your life. But only the richest can afford it and she can’t think of anyone powerful enough to care about wanting her dead. “If so, you don’t have to kill me. I can disappear. Pretend to be dead.”

Price scoffs, glancing at her. “That’s not an option. And if you try to run again, you’ll be putting Daniel’s life in danger.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt him.” Worried that her fear will just spur him to use Daniel as bait, she clears her throat and says, “It’s not like I’d care. We—”

“Don’t take me for an idiot,” Price interrupts. “Is it just a coincidence that he took you out of the state the day I Registered you? He was ready to attack me on that train. You were in bed together. You . . .” Price’s voice seems thick and Lynell looks at him with her eyebrows furrowed. “You’ll care what happens to him. You can’t outrun the Registration, but you can keep him from being killed, and I know you want that.”

Lynell wants to argue with him but doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Also, her throat feels tight and she’s not sure she could get the words out anyway. So, they endure silence for the rest of the drive until they stop in front of the hotel. Before they climb out, Price taps a bank card against the transaction machine reader on the back of the driver’s seat. It blinks green, indicating he has successfully paid, and they head to the hotel, where Price checks them in at the front desk.

“Have a good night, Mr. and Mrs. Price,” the lady at the front desk says with a smile.

Lynell feels bile rise in her throat. “We aren’t—” she starts. Price grabs her wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling. He accepts the key card and they follow the receptionist’s directions toward the stairwell and elevator.

The hallway is brightly lit. Generic paintings hang on the walls every few feet, and an alcove across from the elevators sports two chairs and a small bookshelf. Lynell steps to it, scanning the books lining the shelf.

She pulls a booklet from the top shelf. It’s only about six inches long and has thin pages bound together with a silicon spiral. It’s similar to the pamphlets many free clinics, poorer public schools, and a few independent stores display in Dallas.