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It’s an older version of the guard I saw with Zeph, the boy whose name is on the tip of my tongue. He has the same deep brown skin, deep-set eyes with long lashes, and strong brow. The lines on his face are deeper, and there are streaks of gray in his closely cropped hair. His mouth has a pinched, cruel tilt to it. He notices my obvious reaction.

“Have we met before?” he asks in a low, raspy voice.

“No,” I answer. Then I remember Ren telling me to be honest. “You look like someone I met in Baltimore.”

The man grins and it doesn’t improve things at all. Even Ren flinches beside me, as they try to appear interested in the card game going on by the window.

“You’ve met Vale,” he says and his eyes narrow.

Vale! That was his name, Vale Adamson. I remember his mom’s warm voice now, calling him to come to the car after meetings. What happened to them, and why is the son of a MAV leader working for rebels?

I shrug, breathing through my nose, and hope I’m keeping a straight face. “Vale, yeah.”

He stares at me, silent, and a crawling sensation creeps up my arms. His head swivels to the man behind the counter.

“She says she wants to buy a wiped phone,” the stooped man tells him.

“What’s your name?” the man who looks like Vale asks me in his low voice.

“Ami,” I answer softly. I remember I’m supposed to be a rebel sympathizer, an Oath Refuser, and I straighten my shoulders.

“And where are you going, Ami?” he asks, not giving me his name.

“Anchorage,” I tell him and close my mouth to stop myself from saying more.

He nods. “Then we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

I’m not sure what that means. I try not to flinch from his sharp gaze. I have a million tells. My ears, unpierced. My hair, all-natural color. No tattoos to speak of. I don’t look like the other deportees.

At least my clothes are worn and blend in, but I can tell that the years of Citizen training, my posture, my expressions, my breathing must show through. This man doesn’t miss anything.

He decides. “Get her one, on the house,” he directs the man behind the counter. Unreactive as ever, the stooped man moves to open a low drawer behind him, his body blocking me from seeing what’s in it.

“I’m happy to pay,” I say, imbuing my voice with strength.

“Let’s call it a favor,” he rasps. I don’t want to owe this man a favor, but I don’t want to say no to him.

Next to me Ren gives a sharp nod. “Thanks,” they say and I echo them, “Thank you.”

“How was he?” the man asks, leaning closer.

I freeze to prevent myself from jerking back, then ask curiously, “Who?”

“Vale, in the PS. You said you saw him in Baltimore. Was he working as a guard? Or in the WPA?”

“As a guard,” I confirm. “Is he your…?” I trail off, not sure what to ask. They certainly look related.

“Son,” he confirms. “Vale is my son. I haven’t seen him in weeks. How did he look?” An anxious twist comes over his face. I smile back before I can second-guess myself, thinking about Vale.

“He looked good. He looked…well.” He was gorgeous is what he was. Just as handsome as the older man next to me, but without the scary vibe.

I remember how his eyes followed me, the quiet way he stood with his fingers on the skin of my wrist. I still don’t understand how he got involved with whatever this is—Ren called them a militia group.

I’ve been staring off into space and I suddenly worry that Vale’s father can read my thoughts somehow, but his eyes are also blank. Does he miss his son? Why was Vale “gone” for weeks? If this man says he’ll see me in Anchorage, does that mean Vale will be there—and Zeph too?

“He was traveling with someone I'm looking for, someone named Zeph, with red hair.” I search the man’s face for answers but he just shakes his head, frowning.

“No idea.”