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He was spending more time with his family.

Working less.

Exercising more.

There’d been a period of soul-searching after his old company had gone under, and at least from the outside, he appeared to have made the best of it.

As I began to input my impressions of Clifford Johnson based on a social media review—the algorithm’s final data point—my phone rang.

Beth calling.

I touched the earpiece.

“Hi, love.”

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“Data entry.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

I continued typing: Outward expressions of satisfaction with his life are evident. There are no anti-government sentiments expressed (at least publicly).

“Yeah, I just can’t believe I get to do this for a living. What’s up?”

“Take me to La Fleur tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?” I asked. Eating out, especially at a fine-dining restaurant, was an extortionate affair in our post-famine world.

While Dr. Johnson’s prior work history was in the commercial sector, he appears to have adjusted well to his new career in the public school system.

“No occasion,” she said. “I just miss you. Feels like we haven’t really connected in a while.”

Had Beth noticed some of the changes I’d been undergoing?

At least from a glance, his social media presence does not raise any red flags.

“Seven o’clock work?” I asked.

“Perfect.”

MYSTIC flashed a message in my HUD: Recommend no further action or investigation at this time.

“I’ll make the reservation,” I said.

As I ended the call, I stared at the text box in my HUD, which I’d been filling out when Beth rang.

An odd realization crept over me.

I had continued to input my assessment of Clifford Johnson’s social media presence throughout my conversation with Beth.

Replaying what had just transpired, I arrived at a surprising conclusion.

Neither activity—speaking to my wife or working with MYSTIC—had defaulted to autopilot.

In the moment, I had been fully engaged with each task—simultaneously. Re-reading what I’d written about Johnson, there were no typos. While not exactly Tolstoy, it was a well-reasoned paragraph of writing. Absolutely extraordinary.

Was it possible the virus I’d been exposed to was making me better?

And where was Strand’s report?

Fuck this. I would go to his office during lunch.

My phone vibrated.

Turning it over, I saw a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

It read:

They know you’re changing.



I felt a cold shudder of fear, ripped off my HUD frames, wrote back:

Who is this?



The response came instantly.

You need to leave the building NOW.



My pulse quickened.

I lifted off my chair just high enough to peer over my cubicle wall.

Analyst row was an open floor of cubicles that could’ve been the bullpen of any company.

At the moment, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

The sound of fingertips typing away on keyboards.

Muffled music bleeding through headphones.

A handful of quiet conversations.

Two men appeared in the doorway on the far side of the room. I didn’t recognize them, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag. The GPA had four hundred employees in the building, and I only knew a fraction of— No.

Something was off.

They weren’t analysts returning from lunch. They were speaking with a woman named Ronna who managed the group that worked with MYSTIC. And it was a small thing, impossible for me to read with absolute certainty at this distance, but their body language evinced a quality I had never seen on analyst row.

Coiled energy.

These were men accustomed to physicality.

To violence.

A wrecking ball of adrenaline hit my nervous system.

I sat back down in my chair.

The men were heading in my direction now, their cheap, dark jackets open, and even from fifty feet away, I could see that they were carrying.

I was not.

And I had a decision to make.

Now.

I slid off my chair, stepped out of my cubicle into one of the walkways that cut from one end of the bullpen to the other, and moved away from the men at the leisurely pace of a government employee taking a much-deserved trip to the breakroom.

Only when I reached the far end of the room did I venture a glance back.

Those men were at my cubicle now—one of them was going through my things.

We locked eyes.

He was short and wide, but he looked like he could move.

As he said something to his partner, I turned out of the bullpen and took off, sprinting down a hallway.

I passed an alcove humming with vending machines.

A breakroom.

Restrooms.

Behind me, someone shouted, “Logan!”

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Smashed through a door leading to a stairwell and flew down the steps.

I’d always taken the elevators on the other side of the bullpen and never went down this way, but I suspected the stairs emptied into the lobby.