“Six o’clock. Another Guard.”
I don’t need to look behind me. I can feel his presence in the shift of energy. From the corner of my vision, I see him approach the pedestrian crossing to my left. The umbrellas dutifully part, providing him a pathway as he steps out into the street, ignoring the orange hand commanding him to stop.
Every ridesharing auto and bicyclist waits patiently for the Guard to complete his leisurely crossing and blatant display of authority. A few people even smile and wave as he strolls past. A man beside me spits on the ground, the thick wad of saliva landing on the toe of my boot. He mutters a curse at the Guard below his breath, so low that no one could swear they heard what he said.
Before the Guard makes it beyond the bike lane, our light turns green, and Ava and I are carried away once again by the hurried force of the herd. I tuck my chin low as we reach the walkway, and Ava turns our route east. She drives us forward, still clasping the bottom of my shirt, until we stand before the digital map of Denver.
We hang near the back of the station, mixing with those awaiting the next light-rail that’s speeding toward us on the nearby tracks.
Our sharp eyes find our target quickly: Clearmoor Street.
“Twelve blocks away,” Ava calculates.
My eyes linger on a Family Planning ad projected above the transit map. “One Child, One Nation” flashes below a steady rush of famous couples and their prized only child. The luxe, joyful images reach a final crescendo, closing on the president and finally the governor of Texas and his wife. Roth’s claw-like fingers clutch the shoulder of his own progeny, Halton, uniformed and grand. Both parade such pompous airs, my stomach turns.
The wide, glossy streets in front of me, the curve of Ava’s hood beside me, the people, the cars, the buildings—everything vanishes into an unfocused haze, and all I see is Roth’s face: sharp, distinct, defined, and staring straight at me.
Somewhere in the distance the warm timbre of his mechanical voice spews words like united, future, Gala, celebration. But his thin lips form a message meant for me alone: It won’t be long now. The game will be over soon, and you will be mine.
I close my eyes, but his face is burned onto the back of my lids in red and gold.
Just like your father is mine. Just like the country is mine.
Ava pulls me away from the hologram, awakening me from my hypnosis.
“We’re almost there,” she assures me as we join the teeming pedestrian lane heading for the center of downtown. She must have read the traces of unease still written across my face.
I relax my features into an unreadable mask, erasing all feeling and thought that does not aid in the task of getting us inside the last safe house that belongs to Rayla Cadwell.
We’re almost there, I repeat to myself. This can all be over soon.
Twenty stories of modest balcony gardens and small windows sealed with metal bars rise above the tip of my sun-bleached umbrella.
“Room 8008,” Ava tells me, remembering it from Father’s map.
I lower my head and skim the sidewalk overrun with improvised tents and shelters made of primitive scrap materials that provide a temporary home for the swollen population of Denver’s homeless. A Guard patrols the corner, one hand gripping the holster of her taser gun.
“Now,” Ava says.
Casually, with a timing calculated to attract little notice, we separate ourselves from the cardboard refuge that lines the bike lane and follow a balding man in a tailored gray suit.
For nearly an hour, Ava and I have staked out Rayla’s apartment building, waiting invisibly on the edge of the hodgepodge tent city for the right person to pass. Forty-nine people crossed our gaze and failed our scrutiny, but Ava has pegged this man to be a resident of the unit and the one who could finally be our way in.
We are rewarded for our patience. The man turns left into the covered entrance, swipes his wrist to unlock the building, and glides his way through the revolving glass doors. Ava and I sneak inside behind him, and before the rotation locks again, requiring another microchip scan, we push forward, slide out from the enclosure, and step into the bright and sterile lobby.
A broken security camera dangles in the low-ceilinged corner, the only disruption in the white-walled space. Vandalized surveillance. I send Ava a look of caution, but she just nods, signaling for us to close our umbrellas and keep moving.
As we trail the man to the elevator, I clench the aluminum handle of my umbrella like the hilt of a sword. I count six seconds before there’s a lackluster ding and the dull single-panel door of the elevator opens.
A rowdy group of four, all twenty-somethings and drunk, spill out of the compact carriage, plowing through Ava and me before we have a chance to move aside. They race through the lobby, their laughter loud and abrasive, their youthful spirits announcing to this stale room and the world outside: I’m untouchable. Infallible. And this joy will be everlasting.
If only that were true.
I turn and file into the elevator, hoping a second microchip scan is not required to gain access to each individual floor. Ava and I judged an apartment tower in this area would unlikely supply such high-priced security, and a cursory glance at the mirrored walls of the carriage tells me we were once again correct.
Ava stands to the side of the man with the shiny pink scalp, our lone fellow passenger. The door closes, and the man pinches his nostrils as I wedge myself into a corner.
“Level two,” he says aloud before lifting a cotton surgical mask over his nose and mouth.
“Level four,” Ava says, disguising her voice beneath a flat tone.
The elevator door opens, dumps out the man, and we are alone inside the claustrophobic box, crowded with our reflections.
“Cancel level four,” I tell the elevator, choosing a sonorous voice for myself. “Level eight.”
There’s no sensation of upward motion, but the coarse elevator chime indicates we’ve arrived. The door slides open to the empty eighth floor, and we move forward, shoulder to shoulder, treading lightly down the carpeted hallway.
We stop when we reach Apartment 8008. I concentrate on my slow breaths, damming the flood of doubts and expectations that threaten to overwhelm my courage. Adjusting our hoods, we step closer to the door, placing our grungy boots on the worn-out mat smeared with the fresh stains from someone else’s shoes. Someone is here.
Ava raps firmly, twice, on the door, but there is no response. She tries again, the knuckles of her fingers striking the door seven more times, each blow louder and stronger, exposing her impatience.
Between the intervals of hammering, I hear the faint sounds of shuffling feet beyond the steel barrier. Ava hears it too.
“Hello?” Ava says, dropping her hand but keeping her fingers clenched into a fist.
“We’re looking for Rayla Cadwell,” I add when no one answers.
Pressing my ear against the door, I close my eyes and listen for signs of life. I hear only the strangled throbs of music vibrating the walls from the floor below and the blaring alarm rising inside me, urging us to leave.
“I know someone’s in there,” Ava says, her impatience heightening to intense frustration. She raises her hand to resume her knocking, but I catch her arm before her fist hits the hollow steel.
The padded footsteps have returned.
“Please, will you speak with us?” I ask whoever is on the other side.