“Hey!”

I bump into a guy pushing a stroller, shout an apology, but I don’t stop, because I can hear other shouts that tell me the Marshals are on my heels. I jump atop the long seat of a red-and-silver bench, step on the back of it, and leap over onto the stone pavement. I don’t look behind me as I bolt toward the fountain park. Despite the chilly breeze coming off the lake, there are kids squealing as they skip through the dozen or so arching sprays of water. Pulling the bag of papers to my chest, I splash across the pavement, dodge the children, and veer right to the concourse side of the pier. The splashing footsteps that pound behind me tell me I can’t slow down.

Lights glow against the darkening of the night. I glance behind me as I weave around a performer made up to look like a statue. The woman Marshal is about twenty yards back and moving fast. The other one is nowhere in view. Neither is Atlas or any of the Stewards I recognize. For now, I’m on my own.

Fear pushes me to go faster. I weave around advertising screens touting restaurants and boat rides and other entertainments, and then run past people and streetlamps down the interlocked stone ground of the concourse. In the middle of the summer, the pier is packed with people. A larger crowd would be easier to get lost in. I could just wait for the Marshals to pass me by without venturing too far away from shore. But it isn’t wall-to-wall people today, which makes it harder to simply fade into the background.

The sounds of guitars, horns, drums, and the bass that still rings deep in my chest grow closer the farther onto the pier I run. Scents of roasting nuts, popcorn, and fried dough are carried on the ever-chillier breeze, or maybe it just seems colder because my feet are wet and I’m scared and desperate to get away from it all.

Dropping the slightly damp page in my hands into an open bag dangling off an older woman’s arm, I dash to the side of a snack booth to my right, which partially hides me from view. I take off the blue baseball cap and shake out my hair so it curtains around my shoulders. Then I pull up the bottom of my shirt and tie it into a knot above my waist. I drop the black duffel, now emptied of dictionaries, behind the stand, jam my hat into one of the other bags, and make sure they are each open enough for me to grab items out of them on the fly before slinging them over my shoulder.

As far as disguises go, it’s not great. But the Marshals saw me for only a few seconds. I hope they’ll focus on looking for the blue hat as I hurry toward the music.

I glance over my shoulder as I weave around a woman holding a small, crying toddler. There is a man in a dark shirt and dark shoes standing with his back to me about fifteen feet away. He turns in my direction, and the familiar sharp nose and scruffy jawline get me moving again.