Dewey nods. “Only now Atticus and Folio are gone and the Lyceum is going into lockdown for months . . . maybe years.”

“Which means we have to put this plan into motion now,” I say.

“How?” Atlas asks. “My father and Isaac will be long gone by the time Dewey’s dripping truth has any chance of making a hole in the government’s lies.”

“There are faster ways of putting holes in a stone,” I say. “We get all of this out, into the hands of people all at once. The government can’t pull that many people off the street or out of their houses without everyone in the city taking notice.” And the upheaval might just provide enough cover for Rose to search her father’s offices for information about where they are holding Isaac and Atticus.

“Sounds great—but there are only two of us.”

“Three,” Dewey corrects. “I’d rather be working up there than stuck with all these people down here.”

Atlas scoffs. “Fine. Three. The Marshals will figure out what we’re doing before we have a chance to hand out a fraction of this stuff.”

He’s right. As soon as we start putting paper on the street, people will notice and someone will report it. The only way this will work is if we can deliver all of these books and papers into people’s hands in a short period of time.

“There have to be other Stewards who would be willing to help,” I say, picking up one of the red-and-white hard-covered dictionaries. “You said a lot of Stewards trained to defend themselves against the Marshals. Would any of them be willing to make a stand?”

“A lot would never think to go against the Engineers or the Stewards’ preservation mission. But there are some who might.”

Atlas turns to Dewey. “What do you think?”

Dewey adjusts his hat again and smiles. “Couldn’t hurt to ask. But whatever you’re going to do, you’re going to have to do it now. The clock counting down to the lockdown is ticking.”

“Our best shot is talking to the Stokers in the hopper.”

When I give him a confused look, Atlas explains, “Stokers are what we call the Stewards on the streets who are trained to fight. There’s a separate area in the Lyceum where we practice. A bunch of us call it the hopper.”

“The coast is clear,” Dewey says, peering through a small hole. “Atlas, take her to the hopper. I’ll gather up whoever I think might be open to making a stand and meet the two of you there.” He flips a latch, opens the door, and turns toward me. “I hope you’re good with words, my dear. To convince that crowd to put their lives on the line for you—well, let’s just say you’re going to need all the words you can get.”

The gravel on the floor of the hopper crunches under my feet. The cave-like space is lit by spotlights of white and pale blue positioned near the dirt-packed walls. In the center of the room are sections of wrought-iron and chain-link fences—many taller than me. At least three dozen people weave around the fences. Some carry boxes. Others have bags slung over their shoulders. An older woman with long brown hair and a diamond stud twinkling from her left eyebrow is perched at the top of a rusted section of fence, shouting orders about sleeping arrangements.