Disappointment cuts deep. The trucks coming and going during the curfew time—when no one else would be driving on the streets—reinforce what the plans made us think this place was used for. But if the trucks are gone, chances are the building is no longer being used for that purpose, if at all. “Did you know anyone who worked here who might know where this company moved to?”

She blinks. “Not really. There were always men with badges coming and going. I figured that’s why they were allowed to break curfew without getting in trouble. Maybe if you asked at the police station?” She shrugs and gives me a little wave. “I have to get my ice cream in the freezer. Tell your friend I hope he finds whoever he’s looking for.” With that she shuffles to a gate next to an apartment complex and disappears inside.

I check the entrance to the parking garage anyway, but it’s locked up tight.

“It’s empty,” I tell Atlas when I meet him back by the front entrance.

“I know.” There’s a stark hollowness in his eyes that steals my breath. “The guy in the coffee shop said his business dropped off weeks ago. No one has been around since.”

Laughter from the patio of the coffee shop makes the stab of defeat dig deeper. Others are happy, carefree, and oblivious—while Atlas is crushed by loss and all that he knows.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But there could be other places like this. And now that we know what the government is calling them, maybe—”

“Walk.”

“But, Atlas. I think that we—”

“There’s a Marshal coming toward us. We have to start walking. Now.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the doorway. “Don’t look.”

Too late. I’ve already glanced down the sidewalk. There’s a girl in a blue cap, a couple of twentysomething guys in matching green sports shirts, and one lone guy in khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt striding purposefully behind them. He has dark straight hair and thick eyebrows that arch above narrow-framed sunglasses, which suddenly seem to be looking right at me.

“This way.”

We move toward the crosswalk and stop at the curb to wait as cars zoom past. Every second that passes, the guy in the sunglasses is getting closer. The guys in the matching shirts join us on the curb, and Atlas leans over to whisper in my ear, “Don’t move when the light changes.” He shifts his own backpack so that it is hanging from one arm, unzips it, and murmurs, “But be ready to run.”

The back of my neck prickles as the light turns and the pedestrian Walk sign appears.

“Hey, I think we might be on the wrong block,” Atlas says in a loud voice. He pulls me to the side and takes out his phone to make it seem like he’s looking up directions. I shift the weight on my feet as the lanky girl in jeans and a blue ball cap hurries past us. The sign changes to Don’t Walk as the guy with the narrow sunglasses reaches the curb.