After Christopher's plea over the radio, the rest of the drive was quiet.

We drove past the elevated train station and navigated to an overgrown playground near the city's border. Then Harry parked the car under a tree near some bushes, threw the keys back under the visor, and instructed me to help camouflage it.

"Grab that branch over there," Harry says, pointing to a large fallen limb.

I hand Harry the branch. After placing it, he steps back to make sure the car is sufficiently hidden.

"Good." Harry then reaches into the duffel's side pocket and tosses me something. "Here."

I grab it, catching it easily. It's a protein bar, and I tear open the wrapper greedily. I didn't realize how hungry I was.

As I'm chewing, Harry leads us a few yards away to a line of hedges. I follow him through a gap in the shrubbery and then through a hole in a chain-link fence.

Then he clicks on his mask, and I do the same, feeling the stranger's facial features click into place.

"How does it feel to be back in the city?" he asks, arms spread wide.

"We're here?" I look around. We are standing on a retaining wall, facing a deserted street. The buildings are dark and utilitarian, but the asphalt is maintained. No cracks or potholes.

"Come on," he says with a gesture, stepping off the retaining wall and down to the sidewalk.

"Is this how you get to work?" I ask. I know he disappears a few times a week for his shifts, but I've never asked how he gets back and forth.

"Pretty much," he answers. "But I'm not usually the one doing the driving."

I could've guessed that.

"So, are we walking the whole way?" My feet ache at the prospect, thinking of the last time I was in the city.

"That would take time we don't have," he says.

Then we turn a corner, and I know where we are. We're near the end of the tramway, right where Marcy and I found the tunnel.

Marcy.

Has she noticed yet that I'm gone? Is she worried about where I am?

There is nothing I can do about it now, so I try to shake the thought away.

Harry pauses, partially unzips the duffel, and withdraws a can of spray paint. "Here, hold this for a second," he says, handing me the bag.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my eyes darting around.

"Just wait." Harry looks both ways and walks over to where the semi-hidden wall is, again, freshly painted.

I can hear traffic on the next street over. There's probably a crowd of people just around the next corner waiting to catch the tram. "You're going to get caught," I whisper, eyes wide.

Harry doesn't respond. He dashes over, uncapping and shaking the spray paint can as he walks, and then with practiced hands he tags the wall with the now-familiar logo of the Queer Rebels. Two circles. Two lines. An overlapping Q and R.

Then he rushes back over, grabs the bag from my hand, shoves the can back in, and ushers me towards the crowd of commuters.

"That was risky," I mutter.

"It's just a game we play." Harry shrugs.

"Game?"

"Yeah, I tag. They paint over."

"Aren't you worried about being caught?" I ask as we continue to walk down the block.

"This is my route to work," Harry explains. "If I was going to get caught, it would've happened already. Oh, and here." He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card.

As I take it, I realize that the face on the card matches the disguise that I'm wearing. "How many of these things do you have?"

"Enough," he answers.

There isn't a crush of people waiting for the tram, not like there would be downtown, but it's early enough that there are still plenty of commuters. Harry glances around, shifting his stance to match those of the other people patiently waiting for the next scheduled arrival.

It's strange, watching these people just going about their lives. A life in the city that was meant to be mine, but now never will be.

The strangest part is how normal it all seems.

This place still feels like home.

When the tram pulls up, we form a line, and Harry and I use the fake IDs to board. We sit down next to each other, and the bag by Harry's feet rattles with cans of spray paint—a reminder of our mission.

I try to appear calm, but listening to the metal rolling around with each little bump, my mind races with what-ifs.

What if I get separated from Harry? What if one of us gets caught? What if I see someone that I know?

I shift nervously. My panic must be palpable, because Harry nudges me and whispers, "Relax. Even your own mother wouldn't recognize you."

A few minutes later, the tram slows down at the next stop, allowing a fresh wave of passengers to board. My heart forgets to beat as I see a familiar face step into the car.

Renee.

I can't help but stare. Her usual smile is absent and her eyes look blank. Did she suffer any consequences for helping us escape? The city would never leave a visible mark on someone, but did they do something to her mind? Who knows that they are capable of.

As I look at her, a pit in my stomach grows. I'm distracted, and, right as our eyes collide, I can feel my mask falter.

I quickly shift in my seat and turn my head, but not before seeing her eyes widen.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With a deep breath, I bite my lip and try to click the mask back into place. It feels off. Askew. Like a staticy shirt that keeps clinging.

I clench my eyes shut and inhale through my nose, focusing my mind on fixing the glitch.

Has anyone else seen me?

Harry doesn't seem to have noticed, so maybe I'm safe.

"Charlie?" comes a familiar voice standing above me.

I look up, my mask now secure, and see Renee looking down at me. When our eyes meet this time, her brows furrow, confused.

She blinks rapidly and shakes her head. "Sorry, I–"

"Are you okay?" I cut her off, hoping that the hormones have changed my voice enough that it's not recognizable.

Harry shifts next to me, but I keep my eyes on Renee, somehow hoping that she'll tell me if the city has hurt her.

Renee's eyes narrow, like she's thinking hard. "Sorry. Nevermind. Wrong person."

Then she turns and continues to walk down towards the back of the bus.

As she walks away, my heart refuses to return to a normal rhythm, even as I let out a long breath.

If my nerves can barely handle an almost run in with a former acquaintance, how am I going to handle spray painting a message outside the Choosing Day Center?

I've never even spray painted before. Why didn't I practice? And what are we writing?

Maybe Harry just wanted me to come along to play lookout.

My palms become clammy, and it takes all my concentration to maintain the glamor of this false face.

Why didn't I ask all these questions on the drive over here when I had a chance?

My stomach becomes queasy, and I regret ever walking away from Marcy. For not being more cautious, like Alex.

What will the city do to me if I get caught? Will I have that same blank expression that Renee was wearing on her face?

I don't know what's wrong with me. I agree that the Queer Rebels should be more visible, but I should've asked Harry more questions about his plan.

The tram continues to rumble down the boulevard, stopping every few blocks to allow some passengers off and new ones on. Harry and I sit in silence, with just the clinking duffel bag between us.

Finally, we approach downtown. The buildings rise around us. The tramcar gets more crowded. And then it's our stop.

"Excuse us." Harry grabs the duffel and stands, and I follow him towards the exit.

Stepping out onto the wide street, the Choosing Day Center towers over us, large and imposing. I suddenly feel as small as an ant.

"How do you do this so often?" I ask, staring up at the ominous building.

"You get used to it." Harry navigates through the bustling crowd and towards a narrow alleyway.

I am not as adept at pushing through a crowd, and by the time I catch up with Harry, he is on the far side of a dumpster, hidden from view from passing pedestrians. He is crouching, the duffel open at his feet.

"There are so many people around," I whisper.

"Yup. Every weekday it's the Choosing Day for at least two dozen people. And there are hundreds of people who work in that one building alone," he says as he continues to look through the duffel. "Thousands, probably on this block. There is a bank, which is almost always busy. The cafe. Countless people are going to see our message."

A thought hits me. "Most of those people, though, have already gone through with their procedure. Wouldn't we save more lives if we spread our message at the dorms?"

"We have people working in the dorms," he says, dismissing my idea, not looking up. "Obviously we don't catch everyone. We didn't catch you. But this message isn't just for people like us. This is for the whole city."

"The authorities?" I ask, a chill going down my spine.

He grasps something in his hand and stands up. "We want to get people talking."

"How on earth are we going to spray paint a message in front of the Choosing Day Center with all these people about?" I ask. "There's no way we're not going to get caught."

Harry's expression turns serious. "You don't understand, Charlie. We're not here to graffiti."

He holds out his hand, showing me something that looks ominously like a pipe bomb.

A wave of nausea hits me. What have I agreed to? This isn't a simple act of defiance; it's something far more dangerous.

I stare at Harry, my mind racing with fear and doubt. What path have I chosen? And is there any turning back?