I look at the walls around me. My pulse thuds like steel drums in my ears. If I believe Atlas, I also have to accept that my mother kept a giant secret from everyone she claimed to love. That she didn’t trust us with something so important.

Suddenly, I’d rather live with the lie.

“You’re wrong,” I insist. “Whatever this is, you’re wrong about it and her and I’m not staying here and listening to you make fun of me or destroy my mother’s memory anymore. I’m going home.”

I shove my tablet into my bag and stride across the room.

“Meri, stop. Wait!”

I throw open the door of his “station” and step into the blackness of the anteroom. Atlas can chase after me if he wants, but I’m done listening. I’m not getting on his stupid train-that’s-not-a-train. I’m going to go home and recycle my mother’s paintings and any hint of the life she never cared enough to tell me about. Then I’m going to forget all of this. Every bit.

I feel my way to the door we came through and grasp the handle. Locked.

“Meri, I’m sorry.”

“Give me the key,” I yell as Atlas stops beside me. “I want to get out—now.”

“I’m not a stationmaster. I don’t have the key,” he says in hushed tones. “This is my first time being a conductor.”

I yank on the door. It won’t budge.

“I’m sorry,” Atlas continues. “I can’t even imagine how hard it must be for you to accept all of this. That your entire world is a lie. I’ve grown up my whole life surrounded by books—real books. I heard my father and grandfather speaking the words that your mother painted on those walls—talking about history and the way it’s changed over the years. How they—the government—shape lives without almost anyone understanding what they have done. I’ve never seen the world that you thought you lived in. It makes it harder for me to explain things to new people.”

The regret in his voice pulls at me and I shake my head. I’m not going to listen to any more. “Let. Me. Out!” I pull at the door again and kick it when it doesn’t open.

Atlas lets out a frustrated sigh and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, your mom was involved in something—something important. She didn’t tell you about it, because that’s the Stewards’ policy. There are good reasons for the rule, but it hurts. I can see that, and I’m sorry. You can leave. I promise you can, but not just yet. A passenger can’t go until they have heard it all. You have to ride the train at least that far before you make the next choice. I can’t let you off in between stops.”

“Maybe your father should be the one to talk to me about the rest since his son seriously sucks at it.”

“He can’t.”

“Why should I believe that?”

Atlas snaps, “Because he’s gone.”