I told Lucas about my attempt to find the Circuit, about my meeting with Halo, and about Andres, and about how after he was dead I'd given up. How Henry and I had decided to let things be and not try for a while. When Lucas asked me what had happened to Andres, I'd told him, and I'd told him about Peale, and I'd told him about the guard back at the beach house. And I found it easier--even a relief--to talk to him about those topics. I didn't sense the disappointment or concern that Henry had shown me; in fact, Lucas seemed genuinely impressed with my ability to take care of myself. There was no shame when I told him about the things I'd done. I knew it was because he'd done difficult things, too, and even though I didn't quite forgive him for killing the Hineses, I understood, now, that sometimes decisions had to be made, and they weren't always easy.

The Circuit was still operating out of their base in San Judo, Lucas informed me; whatever I'd heard about them had been false or, at the least, they had only appeared to clear out but had returned. I was in disbelief. Thinking back, I recalled hearing that the whole place had been sealed up, that the underground tunnels had been abandoned and filled with cement. I'd not known how they'd done it, but now he was telling me they were back or had never left. If Henry and I had convinced Andres to take us to them, we'd have ended up right back at the warehouse Slim had taken us to all those months ago. But I realized that Lucas hadn't driven us anywhere that looked like the inner city, where the warehouse had been. It'd been in a creepy area, abandoned and dark buildings and few people, so when Lucas pulled to a stop in front of a gate that led into a swank residential street, I was confused.

We were in a nice part of the city. Bars and restaurants with open windows pumping out music onto plant-filled patios, strings of pretty lights zigzagging over the cobbled streets, clubs that weren't presently busy but probably got moving late at night . . . and off of what seemed the main street, several large, cast-iron gates connected to lion-topped pillars, dividing what looked like beautiful homes from the entertainment. It amazed me that as much time as I'd spent in San Judo, there was so much of it I hadn't seen.

Lucas got out and paid a meter--I couldn't quite see for how long. When he got back in the jeep, I asked him what we were doing here, saying we were far from the Circuit base.

"You think the Circuit leaders live there?"

I almost replied but then shut my mouth and thought. I'd never really considered whether or not the people in charge lived in the underground bunker. I suppose I'd just assumed they had, but Lucas's question made me feel dumb. Why would grown people--probably rich grown people--want to live underground in a horrible part of the city with a bunch of teenagers?

"I've tracked them all down. There're six of them. Four live around here; the other two out in the suburbs. Take them out, the place collapses."

"Have you ever been inside the base?"

"Yes," he admitted. "A long time ago. They had me sort of . . . watching people for a time. Reporting on them."

Something clicked. "When Henry and I were first there—the guy in front thought he was you! That's why he was so scared of Henry." I wanted to ask Lucas about his acumen, about all that had happened during the time I was with him, but I stopped myself; he'd promised to tell me after. I had to wait.

"How long were you there?"

"Just a few days, unless I was there before Oliphant. They kept Henry, and I got out of there. Then I've spent most of my time since trying to find him." My words took a resentful turn, and Lucas grew visibly uncomfortable. He had to have known I was thinking about how he'd pretended to be Henry, and how now he'd taken me from him after I'd finally found him. Maybe I was being far too nice to him, but I shook the anger aside and purposefully changed the topic. "There were a lot of kids there, at the Circuit. What will happen to them if we kill all their leaders?"

Lucas shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. I'm sure there are other people who can fill these guys' places. Others who will step up. But it will be a shake-up; it will scare them." He breathed deeply, stared out the front of the window. "That'll be just enough."

I watched him as surreptitiously as possible, but he said nothing else, and neither did I.

We waited for night to fall. I wanted to get out and walk around, but Lucas was opposed to that; he didn't want us to draw attention to ourselves. I almost pointed out that sitting in our car for hours drew more attention than walking around like normal people, but ultimately, I didn't care enough to argue. I mostly thought about what we were going to do. I knew Lucas meant for us to kill these people, and much of me didn't care; in fact, the thought of getting some form of revenge, especially on Mallinkrodt and Aguado, was intensely alluring. But there was some small part of me that wondered, questioned whether what we were doing was right. I owed these people nothing whatsoever, and I knew they mistreated me and Henry and possibly hundreds of other young people. They weren't good. They didn't deserve to win. I didn't feel bad for them.

As the time dragged and I'd napped as much as possible, the sun set and people began to gather at the patios of the restaurants for food and drink, I found myself, quietly, asking Lucas a question that had begun to prick at my conscience. Arm propped on the window, eyes focused on regular people outside, I said, "Do you think we have souls?"

"Do I think what?"

"That we have souls," I reiterated, turning back to the interior of the jeep. "Or something like them. Karma, maybe."

Lucas stared at me as if he couldn't believe what I'd just asked.

"Was it that stupid of a question? What, you think we do?"

He laughed his joyless laugh, and I felt stupid again. "No. I'm absolutely certain we don't."

"Oh." It wasn't what I'd expected him to say, actually. "No chance at all?"

"None."

"How are you so sure?"

"Nadia. You know we aren't . . . people. Not like other people. We're different."

"Different, but that doesn't mean we aren't people. How can you say that we aren't? We might have some--some abilities, or--differences."

"Enhancements, really."

"Fine, whatever. But maybe that's because they did that to us. Right? Like, we were regular people, but they kidnapped us and did experiments or something. Maybe we're twins! I mean, you're identical to Henry--"

"I'm nothing like Henry."

"You know what I mean. You look identical. And I look identical to Amirah, right?"

"We aren't twins."

"Ok . . ." I voiced the one I was more concerned about: "Then clones. We have to be clones. It's kind of . . . sci-fi, but how else could we look exactly the same, if we aren't twins? We have to be clones."

"Not clones, either."

"Then what? I've thought it over and over. There's nothing else."

"There has to be."

"Come on, really? If you know, tell me! You're always acting like I'm stupid for not knowing things, but if you'd just tell me, I'd know! Everyone just keeps me in—"

He put up a hand. "Stop. I don't know the answer to that one, and I told you I'd tell you what I know, after we take care of this." He studied me for a moment, that coldness in his eyes again. "Are you thinking of backing out?"

"No."

"Good."

"They don't deserve to live."

"No one deserves to live. There's living, and there's dead. Deserving has nothing to do with any of it."

I thought about that. It was probably true. If there was such a thing as people deserving certain outcomes, he and I probably wouldn't be around. And a lot of people who were dead would still be alive, like Mel and Ella, and Roxie, and Slim. Maybe Andres, too. Definitely Paolo. None of them had been bad people. It didn't matter, anyway. Whatever Lucas and I were, they'd made us this way, the Circuit, the masked people. We were their crimes coming back to them. They seemed to deserve that, if they deserved anything at all.

Looking squarely at Lucas, our eyes met, and I wondered at him. I'd hated him when I'd thought he was Henry, but I didn't hate him as Lucas.

"We have to go," he quickly blurted, and I sensed a discomfort in him as he opened his door and stepped out.

Everything that night was easier than I'd assumed it would be, impersonal enough that I could handle whatever Lucas asked of me. With my ability--and his, I realized-- to work with codes and locks, we managed to identify and disable any security devices that were set up at each residence. We wore balaclavas to cover all of our faces except for our eyes, but we didn't have to worry about fingerprints. Killing those people--three men and one woman--was easy. None of them suspected anything. We were quiet, encountered no animals except, in one case, a dog whose yapping was ignored. In two situations, there was a spouse or partner, but, as Lucas assured me, "Family members are guilty, too. They live off others' suffering." Even so, I was grateful that he took care of them and left me to deal with the most obviously guilty ones. I never saw any kids. Whether that was because there weren't any or because Lucas dealt with them, I didn't know. I couldn't have gone that far; I knew that. And I didn't think he would, either . . . but I was too afraid of his answer to ask him.

In and out--quiet as ghosts, quiet as the night. They were all four home, and we drove only a short distance to get to each residence. One was asleep; two were watching television; one was in the shower. None suspected us. None had the chance to speak. Easy.

But then we had two more. Two more out in the suburbs. And suburbs sounded more like there might be family, kids. Coincidentally, one of the last two was Mr. Aguado. The one who'd tried to ruin Henry. The others, I'd recognized, Mr. Mallinkrodt (the one who'd told me all his lies when I'd been taken into the Circuit) included, but I hadn't felt the personal vitriol toward them that I felt for Mr. Aguado. Aguado had been the one to take Henry from me and tell him he was a murderer, tried to turn him into one. He'd tortured him, given him to the masked people, caused everything that had happened since to Henry. All of it was Aguado's fault.

When Lucas pulled up outside the house, I was surprised by how normal it was. Unlike the others, there was nothing extravagant about this one. It was a two-story brick house surrounded by a nice yard and neighbors. There were a mailbox and some adirondack chairs in front, planters with some nice flowers at the porch, a patriotic flag hanging limply in front of the garage. Nothing about this place screamed evil crime-lord. I questioned whether this were the right place, and Lucas confirmed it was, indeed, Aguado's residence.

We pulled into the street behind the target house, thinking we'd go in through the backyard, which would give us more ability to see what was going on inside. There weren't any outdoor dogs, but there was a swingset, I noticed. And a barbecue grill, and a shed, and whatever other normal things any other person in suburban America might have. I still couldn't get over the fact that this was where that terrible man lived, that he could go from teaching young homeless kids how to murder people and then come home to this. Had this really been the person that'd tormented Henry to the point that Henry could barely talk about the experience?

It was probably one in the morning by that point. The lights were off in most of the house; only one room on the first floor appeared to be in use. Lucas noticed the backdoor had a camera, and we were careful to avoid it, coming at it from the side. He managed to open the door easily, taking care of the locks with ease, and then we were inside, moving silently through a kitchen, a dining room, a living room . . . toward the lit room, an office, most likely.

Lucas tapped my arm, and I turned to him. "You stay here," he whispered, his face blue in the shadow. "I'll take him."

I shook my head fiercely. "No," I hissed into the dark. "You stay."

Before he could stop me, I slipped toward the door, gun in hand, my heart beating so loudly I was sure it was audible. I tried to see inside the door, which was open a sliver, but there wasn't enough space. So, gathering my courage, I took the plunge and just pushed it in.

A man with his head down on a desk startled awake. Seeing me, he hurried, trembling, to his feet. "Who-who are you? What is this?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. It was Aguado, all right--tall, lean, black bright eyes. But he was in pajamas, and he looked like any normal person. Pathetic. I kept my gun pointed at him. He raised his hands, looked frightened, and I was glad. Glad to see him shaking, to see him afraid.

"You're an evil person," I said to him, firmly, and then I pulled off my balaclava. I'd felt no need to reveal myself to any of the others, but this one . . . I wanted him to know. "You're a disgusting, evil person. And you're dead, tonight."

He shook his head in fear, and I saw him trying to place my face. After a moment, he whispered, "Henry . . ."

I nodded.

"Please--" he begged. "Please--I have a family. They need me--they'll miss me--"

Cocking my head to one side, I grinned a flat grin, replied, "Must be nice," and shot him in the chest.

The useful thing about the air guns was they were relatively quiet. They also left behind no bullets, no evidence. I thought of those conveniences as he crumpled to the ground, and then I turned and found Lucas watching me from the doorway. I reset the gun, walked to him. He didn't move from the door, just stared at me. I shrugged, not really knowing what he wanted, and he was about to say something when a sound from behind him shook us to attention.

A light was turned on suddenly, and as we backed out of the office into the living room, we saw a couple of kids standing there--they couldn't have been more than ten, either of them, and they were wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Lucas raised his gun but as fast as he did I shoved his arm down. "No!" I insisted.

And then, as a woman's voice called from somewhere above, we ran. Past the kids, through the dining room and the kitchen, out the backdoor and across the lawn and through the neighbor's backyard and into the street to the car.

By the time we reached the jeep, we were panting with exertion, and when we caught each other's glances they were reflections of excitement. He pulled his balaclava over his head, letting his hair fall out around his angled face, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot he wasn't Henry. But then he spoke, and his voice had that edge that I knew was his: "Why'd you stop me?"

I shook my head in disbelief. "You know why. You can't kill kids."

He shrugged it off, went to get in the driver's seat. "The last one's out. At a bar. It'll be difficult."

"Why?" I asked, quickly getting in and slamming my door.

"Well . . . there'll be people everywhere. We don't want to be seen."

"That's impossible. If we want to kill him, we just go in and do it. We'll be in and out, so fast. We won't wear these masks. I'll just walk up, shoot him discreetly, and by the time he's falling over, we'll have already gone out the back door. Easy."

"Yeah," he agreed, thinking it over. "That will work." Our eyes met again, and there was something I couldn't exactly make out in his expression—discomfort? perplexity? maybe even . . . camaraderie? Whatever it was, I could tell it'd taken a brick out of the wall between us. Who knew if that was good or bad? It just was.