My eyes widen in surprise. Anderson lets go of my wrist.

“I already know it was him,” he says, speaking quickly, his eyes darting at and away from me. “His code is in the timestamp.” A pause. “Just clear the summons. And then remind him that she reports only to me. I decide if and when he gets to talk to her.”

He drops his wrist. Touches a finger to his temple.

And then, narrows his eyes at me.

My heart jumps. I straighten. I no longer wait to be prompted. When he looks at me like that, I know it’s my cue to confess.

“You have a tattoo, sir. I was surprised. I wondered what it was.”

Anderson raises an eyebrow at me.

He seems about to speak when, finally, the steel door exhales open. A curl of steam escapes the doorway, behind which emerges a man. He’s tall, taller than Anderson, with wavy brown hair, light brown skin, and light, bright eyes the color of which aren’t immediately obvious. He wears a white lab coat. Tall rubber boots. A face mask hangs around his neck, and a dozen pens have been shoved into the pocket of his coat. He makes no effort to move forward or to step aside; he only stands in the doorway, seemingly undecided.

“What’s going on?” Anderson says. “I sent you a message an hour ago and you never showed up. Then I come to your door and you make me wait.”

The man—Anderson told me his name was Max—says nothing. Instead, he appraises me, his eyes moving up and down my body in a show of undisguised hatred. I’m not sure how to process his reaction.

Anderson sighs, grasping something that isn’t obvious to me.

“Max,” he says quietly. “You can’t be serious.”

Max shoots Anderson a sharp look. “Unlike you, we’re not all made of stone.” And then, looking away: “At least not entirely.”

I’m surprised to discover that Max has an accent, one not unlike the citizens of Oceania. Max must originate from this region.

Anderson sighs again.

“All right,” Max says coolly. “What did you want to discuss?” He pulls a pen out of his pocket, uncapping it with his teeth. He reaches into his other pocket and pulls free a notebook. Flips it open.

I go suddenly blind.

In the span of a single instant darkness floods my vision. Clears. Hazy images reappear, time speeding up and slowing down in fits and starts. Colors streak across my eyes, dilate my pupils. Stars explode, lights flashing, sparking. I hear voices. A single voice. A whisper—

I am a thief

The tape rewinds. Plays back. The file corrupts.

I am

I am

I I I

am

a thief

a thief I stole

I stole this notebook andthispenfromoneofthedoctors

“Of course you did.”

Anderson’s sharp voice brings me back to the present moment. My heart is beating in my throat. Fear presses against my skin, conjuring goose bumps along my arms. My eyes move too quickly, darting around in distress until they rest, finally, on Anderson’s familiar face.

He’s not looking at me. He’s not even speaking to me.

Quiet relief floods through me at the realization. My interlude lasted but a moment, which means I haven’t missed much more than a couple of exchanged words. Max turns to me, studying me curiously.

“Come inside,” he says, and disappears through the door.

I follow Anderson through the entryway, and as soon as I cross the threshold, a blast of icy air sends a shiver up my skin. I don’t make it much farther than the entrance before I’m distracted.

Amazed.

Steel and glass are responsible for most of the structures in the space—massive screens and monitors; microscopes; long glass tables littered with beakers and half-filled test tubes. Accordion pipes sever vertical space around the room, connecting tabletops and ceilings. Blocks of artificial light fixtures are suspended in midair, humming steadily. The light temperature in here is so blue I don’t know how Max can stand it.

I follow Max and Anderson over to a crescent-shaped desk that looks more like a command center. Papers are stacked on one side of the steel top, screens flickering above. More pens are stuffed into a chipped coffee mug sitting atop a thick book.

A book.

I haven’t seen a relic like that in a long time.

Max takes his seat. He gestures at a stool tucked under a nearby table, and Anderson shakes his head.

I continue to stand.

“All right, then, go on,” Max says, his eyes flickering in my direction. “You said there was a problem.”

Anderson looks suddenly uncomfortable. He says nothing for so long that, eventually, Max smiles.

“Out with it,” Max says, gesturing with his pen. “What did you do wrong this time?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Anderson says sharply.

Then he frowns. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Then what is it?”

Anderson takes a deep breath. Finally: “She says that she’s . . . attracted to me.”

Max’s eyes widen. He glances from Anderson to me and then back again. And then, suddenly—

He laughs.

My face heats. I stare straight ahead, studying the strange equipment stacked on shelves against the far wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max scribbling in a notepad. All this modern technology, but he still seems to enjoy writing by hand. The observation strikes me as odd. I file the information away, not really understanding why.

“Fascinating,” Max says, still smiling. He gives his head a quick shake. “Makes perfect sense, of course.”

“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Anderson says, visibly irritated. “But I don’t like it.”

Max laughs again. He leans back in his chair, his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He’s clearly intrigued—excited, even—by the development, and it’s causing his earlier iciness to thaw. He bites down on the pen cap, considering Anderson. There’s a glint in his eye.

“Do mine eyes deceive me,” he says, “or does the great Paris Anderson admit to having a conscience? Or perhaps: a sense of morality?”

“You know better than anyone that I’ve never owned either, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what it feels like.”

“Touché.”

“Anyway—”

“I’m sorry,” Max says, his smile widening. “But I need another moment with this revelation. Can you blame me for being fascinated? Considering the uncontested fact of your being one of the most depraved human beings I’ve ever known—and among our social circles, that’s saying a lot—”

“Ha ha,” Anderson says flatly.

“—I think I’m just surprised. Why is this too much? Why is this the line you won’t cross? Of all the things . . .”

“Max, be serious.”

“I am being serious.”

“Aside from the obvious reasons why this situation should be disturbing to anyone— The girl’s not even eighteen. Even I am not as depraved as that.”

Max shakes his head. Holds up his pen. “Actually, she’s been eighteen for four months.”

Anderson seems about to argue, and then—

“Of course,” he says. “I was remembering the wrong paperwork.” He glances at me as he says it, and I feel my face grow hotter.