As I slowly step away from Atlas, he gently says, “None of this is your fault, Meri. You know that, right?”

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Rose said the same thing.”

He shakes his head, but I can see the answering smile in his eyes when he says, “Maybe she isn’t so bad after all.”

“She said that, too.” I take another steadying breath, shift the cap on my head, and say, “Are you ready?”

“Do you still have the CTA card I gave you?” When I pull it out of my pocket, he nods. “Then let’s go.”

My knee is stiff and aches as we head to the nearest L stop. The train is packed with people headed to work or for a day downtown. The sidewalks are just as full as Atlas leads me to a small brick building wedged in between taller ones constructed of glass and steel just a block or two away from the La Salle Street Bridge—where Atlas and I first met.

“This station will be the last one to close.” Atlas steps into the building’s doorway, then explains, “After the lockdown, any Steward who didn’t make it to the Lyceum or is worried about exposure will come here to be routed to stations out of the city. The last relocation run will be a week after lockdown and this station will officially shut down then. If anything goes wrong—if we get separated or anything—this is the place you should come to get out of Chicago.” He presses a square button twice on the occupant panel, which lists only one name—a business called Substantiate. He waits a beat. Then he presses it three more times.

The intercom crackles to life. “Who is it?”

“Atlas Steward.”

“What do you need?”

“I was hoping to verify something with you.”

There is a pause before a buzzer sounds. Atlas yanks the door open, looks up and down the sidewalk one last time, then enters. I follow him into the narrow but brightly lit foyer, around the corner to where an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair, a pink tank top, and a long, colorful patchwork skirt stands waiting in an open doorway.

“This is Index,” Atlas introduces the woman. “She’s the Master for Station One.”

“At least until they shut me down.” The woman nods. “The Engineers look like they’re planning for this lockdown to last a good, long time.”

“If you’re in charge of shutting down the last station, doesn’t that mean you’ll be locked out of the Lyceum?” I ask.

Index smiles. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be driving the last train of stragglers out of the city myself. I’ve been through enough lockdowns to know I’d rather be on the run than trapped.” She turns to Atlas. “I’m sorry about Atticus.”

Atlas nods and we head down a narrow hall and around the corner. He punches the code 1773 into an elevator with dented silver doors, and the doors slide open. He looks over at me and says, “That’s the year of the Boston Tea Party—in case you read that part of the book.”