I want to understand. I try to imagine what it would be like to not need to get a government degree—or how things would look if any images could be used in news reports or on murals around the city. The city wouldn’t be as beautiful as it is now. Some things we look at would be unsettling or upsetting. People might complain or feel unsafe.

And yet . . . the idea of expressing any idea through art is—

“Atlas!”

He spins toward a woman with thick black hair piled high on top of her head. She’s standing behind a typewriter desk not far from us.

“This is Renu,” he says, closing the distance between them. “Renu joined the Stewards six years ago.”

“And has been wondering when I’ll get a decent night’s sleep ever since.” Renu gives me a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach the dark eyes staring at me from behind angular red frames.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Meri.”

Atlas gives Renu a small shake of his head and explains, “She just hopped on the train tonight.”

“Really?”

Renu removes her glasses. The sleeve of her gray T-shirt shifts and that’s when I see the design on her upper arm. The dark strokes of ink pop against her lighter skin. Three lines on each side form a V—no, not just a V, I think as I look at the shelves around me. A book. A book as it is being opened. Licks of curved lines rise from the opening—like flames. And in the very center of the open pages is a small swirl. When I step to the side and look at Atlas’s arm, I can see that the design he wears is the same and that it isn’t a decorative swirl in the middle. It’s an S.

Renu frowns. “I didn’t think we were giving out any more tickets until all current passengers were accounted for.”

“We’re not . . . technically,” Atlas admits.

Renu looks over her shoulder and says quietly, “I know you’re worried about your father. We all are, but even if we weren’t running on yellow, the Engineers would flip. She’s what? Fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” I correct.

“Sixteen.” She shakes her head. “Get her out of here before they see what you’ve done.”

“They aren’t going to blame me for looking for my father. If the Engineers aren’t trying to find out what happened to him—”

“Telegraphers have arrived,” Renu cuts him off.

“There are Telegraphers here?” Atlas’s grip tightens on the shirt balled in his hands.

“Two. I didn’t get a good look at them. Holden and Scarlett hurried them through the Lyceum faster than I’ve seen them move before. You’d think they were Stokers.”

“Stokers?” I ask.

But Atlas doesn’t pay any attention to me. “How long ago did they arrive?” he asks Renu. “Where did they go?”

“They got in about an hour ago. The Engineers took them into the back room.”

Atlas turns on his heel and hurries toward an opening in the bookshelves that goes back even farther in the room. I have to run to keep up as he zigzags through the shelves, which are so tall and so narrowly spaced that the bright white lights from above can manage to push only part of the darkness away.