“These Stewards are in charge of letting us know about any lies being reported.” He doesn’t seem to notice my anxiety as he heads away from the news broadcasts.

I shake my head. The news is real. It can’t be changed like words in a book. And yet . . .

“Have you seen Atlas or that girl?” a woman’s voice echoes from somewhere in the maze of shelving, and Atlas picks up the pace through a narrow opening between bookshelves. We go through a door, which leads into another low tunnel that slants steeply upward. Finally, after at least twenty minutes of walking we reach another doorway and the stairs that lead up.

More than once, Atlas glances behind us. Twice, he stops and cocks his head to the side. Each time he does, I hear Engineer Scarlett in my head saying she’d remove my ticket. Those words keep me climbing the three flights of stairs despite the way my legs burn and my head aches. After what seems like forever, Atlas opens a thick metal door. The air is crisp as we step into the shadow-lined alley behind a tall brick building. The dewy, fresh breeze washes away a layer of fatigue as if I have just woken up from a long, very strange dream. A quick glance tells me the street curfew expired almost a half hour ago. The sun will soon be on the rise.

“I have a car parked a couple blocks away. Can you make it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You could go back and become roomies with Renu.”

“Not a chance.” And we start walking.

Atlas’s hand is warm and strong as it holds tight to mine. I start to draw away but realize the connection makes it look like we are a couple instead of near strangers. And, while I’d deny it if asked, I’m exhausted enough to admit to myself that his fingers are like an anchor keeping me from being swept into a current of dark, swirling thoughts. And maybe I’m anchoring him, too, because I know what he’s feeling—the empty loss and uncertainty. And I wonder if maybe what he feels is worse, because winding through it all is a current of hope that the loss isn’t permanent.

“He’s not that bad, you know.”

“Who? Dewey?” I give my head a small shake to wake myself up.

Atlas nods. “He’s a good guy when you get to know him.”

“He doesn’t like me.” I shouldn’t mind. The man’s a complete stranger. Only, the fact that he was my mother’s friend means that I do mind, which sucks.

“Dewey is interested in two things, books and the truth. He’s sacrificed a lot for both of those. It’s made him . . .”

“Irritating?”

“I was going to say impatient, but that works, too. When he was a boy he found a bunch of old books in an attic, read them, and noticed the information he was reading wasn’t the same as the things he was being taught in school. Along the way a teacher realized he had a photographic memory and put that fact in his file. She thought she was helping him. Dewey’s parents died in a fire that was somehow started when the Marshals came to take him away. He spent years outsmarting the Marshals on his own until he met my dad. When he joined the Stewards, he donated all of the money he’d inherited to help keep things going. He’s barely left the Lyceum during the last thirty years.”