My sides ache. Sweat drips down my nose and my back. I grip the book harder as the girl and I cut across the last lawn and head for the next sidewalk. Atlas’s footsteps crunch the grass behind me. Then suddenly the sound is gone. Fear spikes. I glance over my shoulder and spot Atlas with his back against the white three-story building we just ran past. I start to slow, then let out a yelp when a blond-haired Marshal rounds the corner. He smiles when he spots me. The smile is predatory as he reaches into his pocket. I hold the book up like a shield and that’s when Atlas leaps forward. His hand knifes into the Marshal’s throat. It is followed by his foot sweeping the Marshal’s legs out from under him. Atlas waves for me to keep going as the Marshal hits the ground with a thud. I turn as Atlas’s foot connects with the Marshal again.

“Where are we going?” the girl pants next to me as we dodge a group of boys on scooters. “Do you know?”

No, and I’m not going to be able to run like this much longer. So I give the only answer I can. “We’re going wherever they aren’t.”

“Sounds right to me,” the girl answers. I can tell by the way she is breathing that she’s struggling, too. We have to hide. But there are too many people who have seen us—all will tell the Marshals what direction we went.

“Toss me the book!” Atlas’s voice calls over my shoulder.

I slow a step as I turn and pitch it to him. My throw sucks, but Atlas manages to grab it without losing speed. “Turn right down the next street. Go through the third door on that side,” he calls, reaching for his bag. “Red sign. Yellow flower. A Conductor owns the store. We have to move fast before the rest of them turn up. They can’t be that far back.”

The idea that we have somewhere safe to hide pushes me to keep moving. We round the corner and this time emerge on a street filled with coffee shops and boutiques and other businesses. The sidewalks are filled with people looking to enjoy the warm weekend evening, and I understand why Atlas told me to pass him the book. I’d stand out like a neon sign carrying it around. I skirt by couples and kids, counting the doors I pass. Finally, I get to door number three and spot the rust-colored sign for a place called Sunny Side Up. It has a large sunflower painted on the wall next to the entrance.

The door dings as I yank it open. Arctic air blasts toward me as I step into a colorful boutique filled with a half dozen or so people admiring hand-painted bags, scarves, funky T-shirts and hats. Atlas and the girl slip in behind me, making the bell ding several times more before the door closes. Two women admiring purses glance over, and I realize what we must look like. Sweaty and nervous and in my case covered in scrapes and bruises. I glance back at the door, waiting for the Marshals to burst through, while Atlas makes a beeline for the counter.