Before I can blink, Dewey tosses the bulky canvas case to Atlas as if it weighs nothing. Just as deftly, Atlas snatches the heavy bag out of the air. As Atlas turns to me, Dewey calls, “‘What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly.’ There is always a price, Atlas. I’m just sorry yours is already so high.”

Atlas’s jaw tightens. Dewey’s eyes swim. Then, in a flash, whatever sympathy I saw is gone as Dewey flips a page in front of him and grunts, “Get her out of here before Scarlett and Holden start wondering if they should take her ticket now. And make sure you keep her from doing anything stupid.”

“Hey—”

“Leave it be,” Atlas warns. “Come on. Let’s go.” I shoot one more look at Dewey, who has pulled his hat low as he crouches over a book, and follow Atlas as he heads through another set of shelves.

Once we are out of earshot, I ask, “Why does he have a problem with me?”

“Your mother’s death hit him really hard. She spent a lot of time reading whatever Dewey handed her. Seeing you . . . it got to him. We go this way.”

I follow Atlas almost blindly through the maze. He claimed Dewey was my mother’s friend, but I never knew the man existed before today, so it seems impossible. Yet so much that should be impossible has happened already.

It isn’t until I see flickering images that my attention returns to my surroundings. We enter a small area where several Stewards are reclining in chairs watching large screens, which are tuned to various channels. On one screen a video of an accident filmed from far overhead plays. Emergency workers dressed in orange-and-yellow jackets scramble through a twisted pileup of a half dozen cars and a smoking semitruck pulling people out of the wreckage.

“I didn’t know the news was on at this time of night.”

“It’s not,” Atlas admits as we duck through another passageway lined with books. “They’re watching recordings of broadcasts from the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why?”

“The most convincing stories are the ones that people want to believe or have a hint of truth woven in with the lie. It used to be the news was all about reporting the facts. Then things changed. It’s part of how the words were taken to begin with.

“According to the news, a truck driver fell asleep and caused the pileup. What we know is that the Marshals were trying to arrest a Steward and the passengers he was transporting out of the city. A car tried to get out of the way of the chase and pulled in front of the truck driver, who couldn’t slow down in time to avoid hitting it.”

“And you know this how?”

“The Steward and one of his passengers got to safety.”

One? “How many passengers were there?”

“Three. A woman and her two children. The oldest girl survived.”

A shadow of unease slides into my chest and settles like a lead weight.