The girl shoves her dark hair back under the hat, then shakes her head and peers around the dumpster. “Those guys must have thought I was someone else. Just a case of mistaken identity.”

The girl is probably only a year or two older than me, with wide-set eyes; sharp, tanned cheekbones; and golden highlights streaking through her brown hair. Add to that the fact she is almost six feet tall and the idea that she could be mistaken for someone else is laughable.

Except nothing about this is funny.

I listen for the sound of footsteps in the alley or from the rooftops above. When I don’t hear any, I say, “At first we thought the Marshal with the gun and the sunglasses was coming after us, but he was following you. And I’m pretty sure you must know that or you would’ve asked who or what the Marshals are.”

She slowly turns her darkly lined brown eyes toward me. “And who are you? How do you know who the Marshals are? Why did you think one might have been after you and your friend?”

“I’m no one,” I say, stretching my legs as much as I can so I’m ready to run when Atlas gets down here.

“That’s not true.” She cocks her head to the side. “You guys are Stewards? Right?”

I go still. According to Atlas, the Stewards are a secret from everyone except the Marshals and the government officials who directed their forces to track them down. And yet this girl knows their name.

“The tattoo,” she explains, snapping the stretch of silence. “The flame. The book. The guy you’re with showed the tattoo to the woman behind the counter in the store. That’s why she helped us, which means she’s a Steward, too. My friends and I have heard rumors for years. We even tried to get word to them to see if they would want to join forces, but it was like trying to find a ghost. We finally gave up because there didn’t seem to be a point. The Stewards have only been interested in standing on the sidelines instead of doing anything to help change things. I’m surprised the two of you aren’t ducking and covering.”

“I never said we were Stewards. . . .”

“No, you didn’t. But we both know you are and that I’m not on my way to one of their holding pens because of you.” She shifts her position behind the dumpster and says, “I owe you. The friends I work with owe you, too.”

Metal rattles overhead. I look up as Atlas hops from the escape ladder to the ground. He shoves the ladder upward, and I flinch as it shrieks back into place. We stay silent for several long seconds as we listen to the sounds of the city around us. A car honks. Somewhere there is laughter.

Finally, Atlas says, “The Marshals seem to be focusing their search on the shops of the street where we disappeared. But that won’t last much longer. I’m going to check the alley and then we’ll move out.”