“He has to leave the city,” Index says gently as Dewey looks on, his battered hat clutched in his hands. “I know you were hoping you could convince him to stay here in the station, but he’s not prepared to deal with any of this. We have new identities for you arranged. There’s a Steward living near the state border who can help you get across into the outskirts of Madison. We have a small group there that will assist you and your father while you get settled.”

“There are people who know the truth here,” I say. How can I leave Atlas or Rose, or the memories of my mother? “We just need to give it more time. Or try again.”

Dewey closes the door on that hope. “The experiment failed. People have moved on. If you could walk on the streets you’d see them going about their lives as if nothing happened. Since you can’t, you’ll have to trust me.”

“Atlas doesn’t believe that.” He has gone out every day to search for signs that the spark has been lit. So far he hasn’t found any, but so many people received those pages. There have to be some who understood the words and cared. There have to be.

“Atlas is clinging to the idea that Atticus can be found.” Dewey sighs. “I wish that were true. He was a dear friend. If I thought we could gather the papers we needed to try again, or that your friend knew where to find the information about his location . . .” He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, it will take months or years before we have the supplies and manpower to mount another try.”

“But—”

“Margaret Thatcher has been credited as saying you may have to fight a battle more than once to win it. We will just have to wait, Merriam, until the time is right to fight again.” Dewey puts his hand on my shoulder. “Your father is waging his own battle. Perhaps that is where you need to focus your attention now.” When I say nothing, Dewey nods. “The last train out leaves in two days. If you are on it, as I suspect you will be, I wish you great luck in your new life. When you need me, I will be here.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, then puts his hat on and disappears out the door.

Index tells me I should get my things together. So, I go upstairs to the room filled with now empty bunk beds I once shared with a half dozen Stewards and begin to put my few belongings into my backpack. Because Dewey is right. My dad has a battle ahead, and I can’t even leave this building. What good can I do? Especially without the supplies we will need to mount another attempt to make people see the truth. Maybe by the time we get the papers necessary to try again, people will be ready to see what we see when we read those words. Or maybe . . .