Choice is an illusion.

The city offered us a Choosing Day, made us feel like we controlled our own destiny, but it was just a trick to allow them to manipulate our minds. Make us conform.

When I escaped to the Queer Rebels, I thought things would be different. But are they?

Sure, I get to be myself. But I can't control the rest. Can't control anyone else.

Now, standing here in the lobby of our new home, with Christopher's eyes boring into me and Harry's words hanging in the air, floating on the static waves they were carried on–It's worse than we knew–all I can think is, how can things be worse?

His call for help feels like a trap.

But Christopher's eyes–red and teary and magnified by his glasses–tell me I'm not going to have a choice.

"We have to get him back," Christopher says, his voice breaking.

I shift uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Harry was in distress when he called. The sickening thud that ended his communication could only mean one thing. And it isn't good. But I'm not ready to rush back into the city to save him.

For one thing, my wrist is broken. After the march earlier today, I'm in no shape for a new mission.

And the group of newcomers watching this all unfold have already told us that the city has upped the patrols in response to our earlier demonstration.

Sequoia's tall, thin frame shifts. "Of course, Christopher. But not this instant." Her voice is soft but firm. "There is nothing we can do now. All our contacts in the city are sleeping, and we should be, too."

Then, she turns her attention to the newcomers, the half dozen kids whose eyes are darting between us, unsure.

The boy with the light-brown faux-hawk has his lips puckered in thought, observing everything unfold. Behind him, two girls, both with dark black hair—one in tight curls and the other pin-straight—seem to lean on each other for support. There's a mousy boy wearing a shy, nervous smile. And a girl with a shaved head and large blue eyes.

Or I assume they're a girl.

I assume all their genders the way people always assumed mine. Is that a habit I'll ever break?

"Let's get you guys settled for the night," Sequoia says to them. "We'll all have proper introductions in the morning."

But before my shoulders can relax, Christopher shakes his head. "No."

I turn to him. His neck is red. Bright streaks of anger are spreading up to his pale cheeks. "If this was anyone else, you'd be arming yourself and breaking into the city tonight. Not in the morning. Tonight." His volume raises on the last word.

"Christopher." Sequoia's voice is a warning.

"I–I know you don't approve of him and me but come on." Christopher throws his hands in the air. "This is larger than some petty jealousy. His life is at stake." His tone fluctuates between pleading and demanding.

I hear stirring behind me. Others are waking up, getting out of their cots, peeking over the half wall that surrounds the sleeping area to watch the commotion. I've never seen Christopher this animated. This impassioned. And I doubt many of the others have, either. He usually seems so stolid. So reserved.

But the newcomers don't know that. Their eyes shift. With such a shitty first impression, they must regret risking so much to join us.

Sequoia takes a graceful step forward, her face placid, red lips pressed into a straight line. "This is not the time nor the place for this conversation," she says coolly.

For a moment, I think Christopher is about to protest more. But he sucks his teeth, turns on his heel, and retreats to his private room. As he passes me, I see tears in his eyes.

I swivel my head to look over at the few people still gawking from the sleeping area and then over at the half-dozen newcomers.

"I apologize for such a rude introduction. We are glad you've made it here." Sequoia ignores Christopher's retreat and keeps her focus on the group of teenagers in front of her.

She'll make sure they have a place to sleep tonight and will get them settled for now.

After only a moment, I turn and follow Christopher. He's just reached the door to his quarters when I catch up.

"Christopher," I call out before he can shut me out.

He stops, lowers his glasses, and wipes at his eyes. "I bet they're fucking torturing him right now."

"I–" I don't know what to say. I hold up my palms.

"Sequoia..." Christopher pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and then shakes his head. "She doesn't need to be involved if she doesn't want to be."

"Involved?" I ask.

Christopher walks into his room. It's small and spartan. The only furniture is a standard-issue cot in one corner and a metal two-drawer desk with a folding chair pushed along the wall. A few boxes are stacked in another corner and there are papers strewn across the desk. But the walls are bare, and the floor is unadorned concrete.

I wonder how much he lost when the compound burned down. Keepsakes and memories from his long life.

He opens and then shuts the drawers to his desk, looking for something that's not there. Then he goes over to the boxes and shuffles through the contents. "Ah," he says.

When he turns around, he is holding a NanoPen.

"I thought we used them all," I say, eyebrows narrowing.

"This is for an emergency."

An emergency? I think of the bloodstains on his car's backseat when he ferried us home from the march this afternoon. The frenzied triage center that had been set up in the lobby just a few hours ago. With so many serious injuries, how could our leader have kept a NanoPen secreted away?

But I don't dare give voice to my thoughts.

Instead, I ask a question. "How are we going to get it to Harry?"

"This isn't for Harry," Christopher says, surprising me. "This is for you."

"Me?" I scoff. "There are people worse off than me." Sure, I am bumped and bruised. My wrist splinted and wrapped tight. But nothing that a few pain pills and a bit of time won't heal.

Christopher's gaze meets my eyes. "No one's injuries are life threatening. Everyone in critical condition was given what they needed. But right now, I need you in good enough shape to go save Harry."

Again, I am speechless. How is he expecting me to do that?

"But where... How?" I stutter out, my mind hit with a tsunami of questions. Where in the city are they keeping Harry? Even if I knew his location, I don't have the skills or knowledge to break into a holding facility, never mind help him escape alive.

Alive is the key word. I probably only have the skills to get us both killed.

"How's Marcy?" Christopher suddenly asks, interrupting my runaway thoughts.

"What?" I ask, taken off guard.

Christopher shrugs. "Isn't that who you were talking to before those kids knocked on the glass?"

"How–how did you know?"

I thought I had been quiet. Thought I was far enough away from everyone. But this is just another reminder that this new hideout—this building that's essentially one large room—doesn't allow for any privacy. Any secrets.

And if I can't even sneak a conversation over a com-device, how does Christopher expect me to break into a city prison undetected?

"You know who her father is, don't you?" Christopher asks as he sits down on the folding chair, pulling it slightly away from the desk.

"Yes... Well, sort of," I answer, still standing.

Christopher nods, his eyes narrowed, thinking. "He'll have access to Harry. Might even supervise his interrogators. Having Marcy on our side will be an advantage."

I can feel the weight of the com-device in my pajama pants pocket. The tentative connection it gives me to the woman I love. But how can I ask this of her? Things between us are too fragile.

"I–I don't know if I could ask her. She just returned to the city. I doubt she has her father's trust." The words trip from my mouth.

Christopher doesn't even nod. He gives no indication of understanding. He just turns the chair around to face the desk.

"Just try, okay? That's all I'm asking." He puts the NanoPen down next to a pile of papers, then reaches into his pocket and takes out his own com-device. "Go try to get some rest. I have to figure this plan out."

A beat passes before I move. I expect him to say more. But when it's clear that he is deep in thought and I'm not needed to formulate this plan—just to carry it out, apparently—I turn and slink away.

When I make it back to my cot and sit down on the taut canvas, Renee rolls over.

"Everything okay?" she asks groggily.

"You're not the only newcomer anymore," I answer as I lay down, kicking off my socks and unzipping my binder, too tired to take it off.

"Hmm," she mumbles as she turns over and goes back to sleep.

I wish it was as easy for me. But between the lingering pain of my injuries and everything that's just happened, I can barely close my eyes.

But I must fall asleep at some point, because suddenly I feel a hand shaking me, rousing me.

I blink open my eyes to see Christopher looking back down at me in the half-light of early dawn.

"Come with me," he whispers.

Everyone else is still and bathed in shadows. I glance over at Renee, who is gently snoring.

I swing my bare feet off the bed as I sit up.

"Grab a jacket, put on your shoes." Christopher nods towards the foot of the cot where my few possessions are tossed. "Hurry."

Without asking questions, I do as I'm told, taking a moment to tug on my socks and refasten my binder before stuffing my feet into my pair of sneakers and carefully shrugging into my fleece.

I'm not as quick as I would be if I had two working wrists, but a moment later, I am following Christopher past rows of sleeping forms, across the wide-open lobby, and then out the front door.

I zip my fleece and cross my arms in front of me. "Where are we going?" I ask as the early morning chill pricks at my cheeks and brushes against the thin fabric of my pajama pants.

"I want you to meet someone," he answers without turning his head.

"Who?" I ask, too tired and confused to feel self-conscious about my disheveled appearance.

Christopher doesn't answer me. He keeps walking, stepping off the cracked black asphalt and onto a cement path that leads behind the building. We walk next to overgrown hedges, rogue branches snagging at my sleeve, until we reach a chain-link fence with forest green privacy slats.

The gate is unlatched and when Christopher opens it, the hinges creak and the bottom scratches against the sidewalk.

We step through. And I freeze.

Leaning against a large red dumpster is a bearded man in his thirties. A fitted cap is tugged down over his long stringy hair and he is wearing loose rough–hewn pants and a tie-dyed hooded sweatshirt.

Around his neck is a string of wooden beads with a familiar-looking L pendant.

This man is a Luddite.

I can't force my feet to move any closer to this... this terrorist. All I can do is widen my eyes as Christopher approaches him, hand extended.

"Eli," Christopher greets him. "I'm glad you could make it here so quickly. Time is of the essence. I want you to meet Charlie."

The Luddite, Eli, gives me one curt nod.

"And Charlie," Christopher says, turning his face towards me. "This is Eli. Harry's brother."