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Anden’s lips tug upward into a hesitant smile. I can clearly see his desire, his dangerous weakness, the way he longs for me. If I ever doubted it before, I know for certain now. I quickly turn away, half hoping that gazing at a snowy landscape might bring some of its coolness to my cheeks.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What would you do if you were me? What would your first action be as the Elector of the Republic?”
I answer without hesitation. “Win over the people,” I say. “The Senate would have no power over you if the public could threaten them with revolution. You need the people at your back, and they need a leader.”
Anden leans back in his chair; some of the railcar’s warm lamplight catches against his coat and outlines him in gold. Something in our conversation has inspired an idea in him; maybe it’s an idea he had all along. “You’d make a good Senator, June,” he says. “You’d be a good ally to your Elector—and the public loves you.”
My mind starts spinning. I could stay here in the Republic and help Anden. Become a Senator when I’m old enough. Get my life back. Leave Day behind with the Patriots. I know how selfish this thinking is, but I can’t stop myself. What’s so wrong with being selfish, anyway? I think bitterly. I could just tell Anden everything about the Patriots’ plans right now—without caring whether word will get back to the Patriots or whether they’ll hurt Day because of it—and return to living a wealthy, secure life as an elite government worker. I could honor my brother’s memory by slowly changing the country from the inside. Couldn’t I?
Horrible. I release this dark fantasy. The thought of leaving Day behind in such a way, of betraying him so completely, of never wrapping my arms around him again, of never ever seeing him again, makes me clench my teeth in pain. I close my eyes for a second and remember his gentle, calloused hands, his passionate ferocity. No, I could never do it. I know this with such blinding certainty that it frightens me. After everything we’ve both sacrificed, surely we deserve a life—or something—together after this is all over? Escaping to the Colonies, or rebuilding the Republic? Anden wants Day’s help; we can all work together. How could I bear to turn away from that light at the end of the tunnel? I need to get back to him. I need to tell Day everything.
First things first. I try to formulate the best way to warn Anden now that we’re finally alone. There’s not much I can safely say. Tell him too much and he might do something that tips off the Patriots. Still, I decide to try my best. At the very least, I need him to trust me without question. I need him behind me when I sabotage the Patriots’ detour.
“Do you believe in me?” This time I do brush his hand with my own.
Anden stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. His eyes search my face, perhaps wondering what had gone through my mind when I closed my eyes. “Perhaps I should ask you the same question,” he replies, a hesitant smile on his lips.
Both of us are speaking on two levels, referring to secrets shared. I nod at him, hoping he’ll take my words seriously. “Then do what I say when we get to Pierra. Promise? Everything I say.”
He tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement, then shrugs and nods yes. He seems to understand that I’m trying to tell him something without saying it aloud. When the time comes for the Patriots to act, I hope Anden remembers his promise.
ME, PASCAO, AND THE OTHER RUNNERS SPEND A full half day aboveground after the train job, huddled in alleys or on top of abandoned roofs, dodging the soldiers that comb the streets near the station. Not until the sun begins to set do we finally get a chance to return, one by one, to the Patriots’ underground quarters. Neither Pascao nor I bring up what happened by the train. Jordan, the shy Runner with the copper braids, asks me twice if I’m okay. I just shrug her off.
Yeah, something’s wrong. Isn’t that the understatement of the year.
By the time we make our way back, everyone is getting ready to leave for Pierra—some are destroying documents, while others are wiping the comps clean of data. Pascao’s voice is a welcome distraction.
“Well done, Day,” he says. He’s sitting at a table against the shelter’s back wall. He opens the side of his jacket, where he’s stashed dozens of packed grenades stolen from the train. He carefully packs each one into a box stacked with empty egg crates. He gestures up at a monitor on the far right of the back wall. It’s showing footage from a large city square, where a group of people have crowded around something spray-painted against the side of a building. “Check it out.”
I read what the people have painted on the wall. Day lives! is scrawled across the building at least three or four times. The onlookers are cheering—some are even holding handmade signs with the same phrase written on them.
If my thoughts weren’t on Eden’s whereabouts or June’s cryptic signal or Tess, I would be excited to see what I’ve stirred up.
“Thanks,” I reply, maybe a little too sharply. “Glad they liked our stunt.”
Pascao hums cheerfully under his breath, oblivious to my tone. “Go see if you can help Jordan.”
As I make my way to the hall, I pass Tess. Baxter is walking beside her—it takes me a second to realize that he’s trying to put an arm around her neck and murmur something in her ear. Tess brushes him away when she sees me. I’m about to say something to her when Baxter bumps me hard in the shoulder, hard enough to knock me back a couple of steps and send the cap flying off my head. My hair tumbles down.
