Twenty-two trespassers now at holding facility waiting transport for transition resettlement.

I think of what Atlas told me—about the people who just go missing. Were they designated for “transition resettlement” as well?

My phone beeps. Ten minutes have passed. I need to go. Every minute I spend in here gives them more time to catch me. I take pictures of the files I looked at and shove them back in their drawer. But I don’t leave yet because I realize there is one last thing I need to do.

I know the address by heart. A week after my mother’s funeral, I took the L and stood on the sidewalk where she had died, angry that there was no sign that she had ever been there. No skid marks, no blood.

Mrs. Anderson said my mother talked about a future project, so I move to the lone cabinet marked “Long-Term Project Research” and flip through the files.

“Ow!”

A thin red line bisects the pad of my index finger. I actually got a cut from paper?

I stick the cut in my mouth and keep searching with my other hand.

I don’t see the file I’m looking for in the top drawer or in the two middle ones. My heart ticks off the passing seconds as I rummage through the bottom drawer.

There. I grab the folder and push the drawer shut. I want to open it, but that will have to wait. I need to get out of here before I get caught. So I shove the folder into my waistband as far as it can go and tug my shirt over the rest. Whatever the folder contains, it is labeled with the exact address where my mother died. I’m not leaving it here for them.

I flick off the light and put my ear to the door. There is only silence, so I head out into the hall. Instead of the elevator, I head for the stairwell. I barge my way through the door and race down the distinctive corkscrew steps. The muted sounds of voices hit me halfway down. The voices grow louder as the spiral stairs end on the second floor and I head down another set of stairs into the atrium.

The source of the voices becomes clear. An architecture tour group has arrived.

I press one of my arms against my midsection to keep the folder in place as I walk down the white-marble-and-wrought-iron staircase that is a focal point of the room. When I reach the bottom, I spot several security officers in a heated conversation near the elevators and veer toward an older couple admiring the impressive light fixtures suspended from the glass ceiling.

The security officers move closer to the bank of elevators. One of them peers into the atrium and I nod my head as if I’m part of the conversation the couple is having, even though I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart. Finally, the guards are gone. I want to run, but I wait for the tour guide to direct everyone to follow her, and I walk with the crowd down the hall, through the revolving door, and out onto the street.