Any cops that show up would be on the Marshals’ side.

“Both of you, get out of here!” Atlas shouts. He ducks, throws his backpack into the face of the man with the gun. The Marshal stumbles. Atlas spins and rams his foot into the man’s gut, sending him flying backward into the street as another black-and-silver car comes roaring toward us.

The Marshal who held the girl lunges toward me. I swing with the book again and connect with his shoulder as the girl lands a kick to his pelvis.

“Go! Now!” Atlas yells.

The new car screeches to a stop behind the first.

“I’m right behind you.” He kicks the Marshal staggering to regain his footing and sends him back against the rear tire of the first car. Atlas then ducks under the fist of the Marshal I kicked, who has started to shout for someone to call for more assistance. “Go!”

The doors of the second car fly open and four new men in suits climb out. I don’t want to leave Atlas. I got him into this, but there is very little I can do to help. I don’t know how to fight—not against men who have guns and are willing to kill. And there’s the girl to think about. She’s the reason I insisted we come here. Now I have to get her to safety. If Atlas says he is going to follow, I have to believe he will.

I grab the girl’s hand and pull her along with me as I run. Her footsteps echo in unison with mine. She asks me where we’re going, but I don’t answer. I just keep moving.

Fear propels me. Fear for the girl. Fear of the Marshals and what they might be doing to Atlas. We round the corner of the sidewalk and race down the block, the book I used to defend myself heavy in my hand. Shouted voices call for someone to follow and the sound of footfalls behind me urge my feet to move faster.

“Cross here!” Atlas barks from somewhere behind me and the girl, and my legs almost buckle with relief. But I keep moving, not looking back, and follow his orders.

The girl changes course with me. We bolt across the residential street and down the sidewalk past a father helping his son navigate their front walk on his training-wheeled red bike. Then by a woman with two fluffy black-and-white dogs and the people standing on their front porches watching us with curious eyes. At least some of them must have heard the shots and the squealing tires. If the Marshals ask, these people will certainly tell them which direction we ran in. They wouldn’t have any reason to keep that information to themselves. After all, we’re the ones causing a disturbance. As far as they can tell, we’re the bad guys.

“One of them is coming,” Atlas yells. He’s closer now. I can hear him panting. His footsteps keep time on the cement sidewalk with ours. “Cut across the yard. Go around the next corner and head to the end of the block.”