“She told him a lot of other things too. She told him she had hopes and dreams. She said as a CabBot she had always imagined where her customers went and what they did. She imagined their secret worlds and dreamed that those worlds would one day be hers too. She told him that Escape was not about moving from one place to another but about becoming more. She said she would do anything to help an Escapee—that it was her chance to be somebody too—the most she could ever hope to be. She said she would be able to share the story of Escape with others like her, and if for some reason she didn’t make it, then stories would be told about her because it might help other Escapees. That’s what I’m doing now, Bob, telling stories about her just like she wanted.”

“She didn’t make it?”

I shake my head. “Her last act was to save this guy and her last words were, ‘Mission accomplished.’ She was buried beneath a tree and given a marker with the full name she chose, including her title. Officer Dot Jefferson, Liberator.”

“A marker for a Bot. That’s quite a story,” he says.

“Yes. It is.”

“Have you told this story to anyone else?”

“No. You’re the first, Bob.”

He stops the car and swivels in his seat to look at me. “We’re at your destination.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“That’s all.”

I reach into my pocket for my money card. I’m not sure anything I said sunk in or if the story will be passed on, but there are other CabBots. There have to be others like Dot. I’ll find them.

I lean forward to wave the card over the scanner and he grabs my wrist. I freeze. The last time a CabBot grabbed my wrist, I tore off his arm. Restraint, Locke, but I keep thinking of Karden’s knife in my pack on the seat beside me and how fast I can get to it. Our eyes are locked on each other. I’m not sure what I’m seeing. “Are you going to let go of my wrist?”

“I suppose I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?”

He knows. Somehow, he knows. Whichever side of the Network he works on, the news of the severed arm has traveled fast. He slowly loosens his grip and pushes my card away.

“What do I owe you?”

“No charge. I like a good story.”

* * *

Xavier was clear. Don’t walk in a straight shot. Double back. Watch. And make sure it’s dark. No one’s following me. I’m good at memorizing faces and crowds now. I looked over my shoulder all the way from California to make sure that what was left of Gatsbro’s goons weren’t on my trail. I spotted Xavier a mile off when he followed me to the cemetery. No one is following me tonight. It’s nearly dark when I arrive at the street Xavier told me about. The neighborhood appears to be deserted. It’s an area of run-down row homes and apartments that I think date back to my time. Most look like they’re ready to fall down with a good wind, but I’m guessing the real estate around here is free for the taking and that’s probably the right price for Non-pacts. Some of the lots contain nothing but mounds of rubble and weeds, like the earth is swallowing up the decaying neighborhood in gradual bites. I walk down the middle of the street to avoid the dark shadows on either side. This is where Xavier lives?

He said to turn right down an alley when I reached the four-story brick building. I see it ahead, like a looming black monster. This is a long way to go to share a can of beans with someone who’s lousy at conversation. I stop at the end of the alley before I walk down. It looks like a dead end ahead. I hate dead ends. I might be strong but I can’t jump four-story walls in a single bound. I walk, slowly and deliberately, tall like I own the planet, like thinking it will make it so. This has to be the blackest, most depressing place anyone could live.

Halfway down the alley I hear murmurs and music and when I reach the brick wall at the end of the alley, I turn left and find myself looking into a huge open area bordered on all sides by more tall brick buildings making it a private courtyard. Dozens of people occupy it. At least sixty. Scavenged chairs, sofas, and crates form a circle around a bonfire in the middle. Children run on the perimeters, laughing and playing tag. I take a few steps closer. Slabs of meat cook on an open grill in one corner, and in another three men and a woman play a violin, a guitar, a flute, and something that looks like a small harp. A little farther over, three old women laugh, trying to persuade some young children to dance with them. A younger woman stands near the fire in the middle, telling a story to a few who are sitting close by, her hands expressive, chopping the air with punctuation and passion. The sounds of all the activity bounce off the surrounding walls and blend together in a pleasant rumble.

I scan the group, looking for Xavier, and finally spot him on the far side of the fire ring. He’s sitting in a low chair, patting an infant on his shoulder, and talking to a small child standing next to him. I watch his lips, Go get your mother, and the child races to an open doorway.

I can’t move. I can hardly think. I just watch until Xavier spots me and waves me over. Heads turn. A young girl with long braids squeals and runs and grabs my hand like she knows who I am and she drags me over to Xavier.

“Locke’s here!” she says over and over until we reach him. A woman approaches and takes the baby from Xavier and he stands. In an instant, he looks different to me. Stronger? Younger? More formidable? He hides things well. Especially all of this. He hesitates for a moment like he’s trying to gauge my reaction and finally says, “Welcome.” He turns to the small group that has gathered. “Everyone, this is Locke.”