“What?” he asks.

Get out of the car now, I tell myself. Go home and go to sleep and forget about all of this if you can. But I don’t, because there is something I have to know and it can’t wait until tomorrow. “What’s a deadman’s switch?”

His eyes look into the lightening sky. “On a train it’s the fail-safe device that stops the engine and keeps the train from crashing if the operator is unable to do so.”

That much I knew. “What is it for the Stewards?”

His jaw tightens. “It’s a small capsule filled with several types of poisons. From the time it passes through the lips, it takes less than ten minutes before the switch is activated and the Steward is dead.”

Ten

My bike is leaning against the side of the garage when I return home. Someone from the Stewards had taken care of it, just as Atlas had promised hours ago when we first stepped off the bridge and into the shadow-filled rabbit hole from which I have yet to fully emerge.

Everything is quiet as I slip through the door and soundlessly shut it behind me. I peel off my shoes, dump my bags at the foot of my bed, and climb under the covers, hoping to find refuge in unconsciousness. To escape the day and the questions swirling in my mind.

The dream comes as it always does. Mom standing on the sidewalk. The headlights shining bright as the car streaks down the street. Only this time the car doesn’t hit her. This time the vehicle screeches to a stop at the curb.

Two men in dark coats jump out. They slam their doors shut and shout, “Are you Gillian Beckley?”

I scream for her to stop, but she is already placing a small pill on the tip of her tongue and swallowing.

“Mom! No!”

The men running toward her freeze in place. The sidewalk and the buildings and the headlights fade into nothingness until only Mom and I are there in a cloud of white.

“An artist’s job is to look at the world and share the truths they see. I had no choice but to look, and I couldn’t ignore what I saw.” She holds out her hand. “Truth can be dangerous, but it is more dangerous to pretend it’s not there. Be careful.”

My eyes snap open.

Sunlight streams bright through my window as I shove the covers off and glance at the clock.

Nine twenty-two. I slept later than I have since the night the two officers came to break the news about the accident. The smell of coffee wraps itself around me like a warm blanket. Dad is not only awake, he’s also functioning. I blink away the haze of sleep and look down at my clothes, which are damp with sweat, and that’s when all that happened last night comes rushing back.

Dad drinking. Atlas on the bridge. The paintings on the station walls. The Lyceum and the books. My mother’s hidden life and all that it implies.