“That’s crazy!”
“But cool.”
“Cool?”
“That we have passionate fans—hell yes. Have you seen the things people are posting online?”
“It’s against the law. It’s wrong.”
“So what? You want to go back to the old logo, so whoever is doing this will stop?”
“That will just encourage them to do it even more. That’s what the ones who questioned me said.”
But that isn’t what’s going to happen, I think as I take the coffee back to my team’s design room. Not if I can help it.
Weeks ago, Dewey quoted someone named Ovid who said that water could burrow a hole into rock if given enough time—or something to that effect. I think of that quote now standing next to the rust-red steel girders above the dark, flowing Chicago River. I have already watched two navy-and-powder-blue-uniformed police officers and an alert, athletically compact dark-haired woman in the Marshals’ distinctive footwear stroll by. Tonight wouldn’t be as easy. And it would get harder and more dangerous from here, but the only way to drill a hole through to the other side of the rock was to keep the water steadily dripping.
I spot Stef, dressed in dark skin-tight pants, a black long-sleeved shirt, matching baseball cap, and dark sunglasses, standing at the northern end of the bridge.
Relief swirls with dread.
She came. Dewey was right. A fact that I am sure he will remind me of.
Stef nods, then steps around several other pedestrians and strides toward me. In her wake are the curly-haired twins in matching denim shorts and gray T-shirts. Beside them, the girl with the long braids, who’s dressed in baggy blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt.
I asked for four people. Part of me thought the older ones would come. I guess I should have known better.
“I wasn’t sure you would be here,” I call as they approach.
“The future matters more than the past,” Stef says, stopping in front of me. The others take up positions just behind her. “You should know that Joy still doesn’t like you. She’s planning to kick your ass once this is over.”
“I hope she’ll have the chance to try.” I toss her a backpack filled with spray-paint cans. “I guess we’d better get to work.”
I keep my voice down as I quickly sketch out their part. Each person will visit two or more public locations with the supplies we provide. Between the traffic and the laughter and conversation and wind, no one can hear us speak, but I still take care to avoid certain words. “More and more people are coming out at night, so working fast is important.”
Stef nods. “We get it.”
“We even practiced with the cans you left behind to make sure we can do it quick,” the girl with the braids adds.
“We did,” Stef confirms. “And we have a few ideas for next time. If you’re willing to let us make some suggestions.”
“Any and all ideas are welcome. It’s going to take a lot of effort to get people ready for what we have to tell them,” I admit.
“We aren’t afraid of doing the work.” Braid girl lifts her chin.
“Good,” I say. “Then you’re with me tonight.” Quickly I explain that Atlas and Dewey are working on the south side of the city. Their efforts should pull the Marshals to that area, leaving us free to hit the middle and north side. Tomorrow, we will double the number of painted symbols. Then double them again the next right and so on. Each night we’ll strike at a different time while continuing to expand the number of images painted.
“The Marshals are going to get seriously annoyed,” one of the twins says.
“That’s part of the plan,” I admit.
“Cool!” his brother adds with a grin. “Anything that jerks the Marshals’ chain is worth doing.”
“Then let’s go see how many Marshals we can annoy,” Stef says. “We have to get you guys home before your curfews.”
With that parting salvo Stef and the twins head toward the south side of the bridge. Then I turn to braid girl and ask, “What’s your curfew?”
She shakes her head. “Gram told my mom we’re at the movies. As long as I’m back in two hours no one will be the wiser. If I’m late she’ll cover for me.”
She pulls out her phone to show me a picture of her and a woman with very short salt-and-pepper hair smiling in front of a movie theater marquee. The time stamp in the corner says the photo was taken five minutes ago. “It’s always good to have an alibi.” She shoves her phone into her back pocket, ties her braids into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and gives me a cocky smile. “Just wait until you hear what else we’ve come up with. I can tell you all about it while we do this.”
As we walk to the L and ride the train several stops north, I learn the girl’s name is Amber. She’s two years younger than I am and in hushed tones tells me she found the truth by stumbling across her grandmother’s old textbooks while playing in their basement when she was seven. “So your entire family knows about—everything.”
“My grandmother and I do. My parents . . .” Amber scrunches her nose. “They believe that this country is on the right track and that anyone who says different is just trying to cause trouble. They turned in my grandmother when I mentioned she still had books at her house. The Environmental Department gave her a choice—to willingly turn over her books to officers for recycling or to be arrested. If it weren’t for me, I think she would have let them take her. Instead, she claimed she had forgotten all about the books and told my parents that she was relieved to have them out of the house. After that, I started searching for other people with books. I can pretend to my parents that I don’t know what was in the books that were taken from my grandmother, but I can’t lie to myself.”
I don’t spot any military boots as we pass through the L station. We then head to an ice cream store located next to a Celebrate Chicago store filled with T-shirts, trinkets, and screens displaying breathtaking images of the city’s most popular sites. I glance at the photo Rose sent to me earlier, then push open the ice cream shop doors.
A guitar riff blares as we step inside.
“Wait here,” I tell Amber. I weave through the tables to the counter where three employees are dressed in red-and-white-striped shirts with the name of the shop embroidered on the pockets. Each of them is busy scooping ice cream and scanning payment from customers’ personal screens. I glance at the picture Rose sent me on my own screen, then make a beeline for the guy with two diamond studs winking from his eyebrow at the very far side of the counter. He’s currently scooping pink ice cream for a young girl and her mom. His wide smile gives him a movie-star-handsome look. It doesn’t surprise me that Rose had once dated him.
“Rose Webster left something for me?” I shout over the music. The guy nods. He reaches down and pulls out a duffle. Without any other acknowledgment, he drops the duffle atop the counter, and returns to work. I hoist the bag onto my shoulder and head for the exit. Once Amber and I are outside, I pull two backpacks out of the bag, hand one to Amber, and say, “Time to get to work. We can stick together for the first few until you get the hang of it.”
“We can do more if we split up,” she says. “That’s the whole reason you asked for help, right?”