As we move along, I notice that there’s one unchanging image in the bottom right-hand corner of each ad. It’s a giant symbol of a circle split into four quadrants, with a smaller symbol inside each of the quadrants. Underneath it in block letters is the following:
THE COLONIES OF AMERICA
C L O U D . M E D I T E C H . D E S C O N . E V E R G R E E N
A FREE STATE IS A CORPORATE STATE
Abruptly I feel Day’s breath warm against my ear. “June,” he whispers.
“What is it?”
“Someone’s following us.”
Another detail I should’ve noticed first. I’ve lost count of the number of things I’m failing to catch. “Can you see his face?”
“No. But judging from the figure, it’s a girl,” he replies. I wait for a few more seconds, then chance a look back. Nothing but a sea of Colonians. Whoever it was, she’s already disappeared into the crowds.
“Probably just a false alarm,” I mutter. “Some Colonies girl.”
Day’s eyes sweep the street, perplexed, then he shrugs it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were starting to see things, especially amongst all these strange new glittering lights and fluorescent ads.
A person approaches us right as we turn our attention back to the street. Five foot seven, droopy cheeks, tannish pink skin, a few strands of black hair peeking out from a heavy snow cap, a flat tablet in her hand. She has a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck (synthetic wool, judging from the uniform texture), and little ice crystals cling to the fabric under her chin where her breath has frozen on it. Her sleeve has the words Street Proctor sewn on, right above another strange symbol. “You’re not showing up. Corp?” she mutters to us. Her eyes stay fixed on the tablet, which has a maplike image and moving bubbles on it. Each bubble seems to correspond to a person on the street. She must mean we’re not showing up on there. Then I realize that there are many people like her dotting the street, all wearing the same dark blue coat.
“Corp?” she repeats impatiently.
Day’s about to reply when I stop him. “Meditech,” I blurt out, remembering the four names from the ads we’ve seen.
The woman pauses to give our outfits (dirty collar shirts, black trousers, and boots) a disapproving once-over. “You must be new,” she adds to herself, tapping something out on her tablet. “You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be, then. Don’t know if you’ve had your orientations yet, but Meditech will dock you hard if you’re late.” Then she gives us a fake smile and launches into an oddly perky routine. “I’m sponsored by Cloud Corp. Stop in Tribune Central Square to buy our newest line of bread!” Her mouth snaps back into the sullen line it was in before, and she hurries away. I watch as she stops a person farther down the street, launching into the same performance.
“There’s something off about this city,” I whisper to Day as we struggle on.
Day’s grip on me is tight and tense. “That’s why I didn’t ask her where the closest hospital was,” he replies. Another wave of dizziness hits me. “Hang in there. We’ll figure something out.”
I try to respond, but now I can barely see where I’m going. Day says something to me, but I can’t understand a word—it sounds like he’s underwater. “What did you say?” The world is spinning now. My knees buckle.
“I said, maybe we. . . stop one. . . hospital. . . ”
I feel myself falling, and my arms and legs are coming up around me in a protective ball, and somewhere overhead Day’s beautiful blue eyes hold me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, but it feels like he’s a million miles away. I try to speak, but my mouth feels like it’s full of sand. I sink into darkness.
* * *
A flash of gold and gray. Someone’s cool hand against my forehead. I reach up to touch it, but the instant my fingers brush against the skin, the hand melts away. I can’t stop shivering—it’s unimaginably cold in here.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, I find myself lying on a simple white cot with my head in Day’s lap, and Day has one of his arms draped around my waist. A moment later I realize that he’s watching another person—another three people—standing in the room with us. (They’re wearing the distinctive uniforms of warfront Colonies soldiers: navy military peacoats studded with gold buttons and epaulettes, with gold and white stripes running along the bottom edge and that signature gold falcon embroidered on each sleeve.) I shake my head. A pretty generic breakdown. I’m so slow right now.
“Through the tunnels,” Day says. Lights on the ceiling blind me. I hadn’t noticed them there earlier.
“How long have you been in the Colonies?” one of the other men asks. His accent sounds strange. He has a pale mustache and limp, greasy hair, and the lighting gives him a sickly complexion. “Better be honest, boy. DesCon doesn’t tolerate liars.”
“We just got here tonight,” Day replies.
“And where did you come from? Do you work for the Patriots?”
Even in my haze, I know this is a dangerous question. They are not going to be happy if they find out that we’re the ones who botched their plans for the Elector. Maybe they don’t even know what happened yet. Razor did say that they update the Colonies only sporadically.
Day realizes the question’s danger too, because he evades it. “We came here alone.” He pauses, and then I hear him speak with a hint of impatience. “Please, she’s burning up with fever. Take us to a hospital, and I’ll tell you anything you want. I didn’t come all this way to see her die in a police station.”