Got your battle armor on?

I smile, haul my bag onto my shoulder, and text back:

Can’t decide what to wear over it.

The conversation follows me down to the lobby.

What are your choices?

Black, black, or black?

My favorite color. You shouldn’t have.

Slimming.

Sexy.

Sensible.

And good for hiding bloodstains.

I smile and pocket the phone as I reach Bishop’s. Mom is busy talking to Ms. Angelli, a cat-happy antiques dealer from the fourth floor, and I swipe a muffin and a coffee and head out, feeling more awake than I have in weeks. Four hours of sleep, I marvel as I unchain Dante and pedal off.

I keep my eyes peeled for the golden man from yesterday, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and I actually start to wonder if he was ever there or if he was just another side effect of the sleeplessness. I hope for the latter, not wanting to think about what the former could mean.

The morning is cool, and I balance my coffee on the handlebars with one hand and steer with the other. As I ride, something fills my chest. Not fear or fatigue, but something lovely and light: hope. I was beginning to think I’d never find dreamless sleep again; but if I could find it in Roland’s daybed, then it’s possible to find it elsewhere, too. Right now, high on those four small hours of rest, possibility is enough.

When I get to Hyde, I find Cash leaning up against the bike rack, holding two coffees and shooing freshmen away like flies from the spot he’s saving me near the front gate. He smiles when he sees me, a broad grin that brightens the morning and helps push any lingering thoughts of Mr. Phillip from my mind. He scoots aside so I can park Dante.

“I wasn’t going to wait for you,” he explains, “but you see, the schedule flips. I showed you the route for the A block, but not the B block.”

“Isn’t it just the A block in reverse?”

“Well, yes,” he says, offering me one of the coffees. I take it, even though I just finished mine. “But I wanted to make sure you knew that. I didn’t want you to think me a negligent ambassador.”

“That would be a travesty,” I say, tugging off the workout pants beneath my skirt.

“Truly,” he says, sipping his drink. “I’m going to lose points as it is for not being able to show you to your morning classes. I’m on the opposite side of campus, and the teachers around here will lock you out if you’re late.”

“I won’t fault you.” I get the first pant leg off.

“Good. There are feedback cards around here somewhere, you know.”

“I’ll be sure to fill one out.…” My shoe catches on the second pant leg; when I try to tug it free, my backpack shifts from my other shoulder and my balance falters. Cash’s hand comes up to steady me, and his noise—all jazz and laughter and pulse—pounds through my head, loud enough to make me flinch and pull away, toppling the other direction, straight into the metallic rock band sound of Wesley Ayers.

He smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s my rare moment of clumsiness or the fact I lean into his noise instead of away from it that makes his eyes glitter.

“Steady there,” he says as I finally free the fabric from my shoe. I get both feet back on the ground, but his touch lingers a moment before sliding away, taking the thrum of music with it.

“Morning, Ayers,” says Cash with a nod.

“Where did you come from, Wes?” I ask.

He tips his head back down the sidewalk.

“What, no fancy car?” I tease.

“Ferrari’s in the shop,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

“And the Lexus?” chirps Cash.

Wesley rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to me. “Is this one giving you trouble?”

“On the contrary,” I say, “he’s been a perfect gentleman. One might even say a knight.”

“In shining armor,” adds Cash, gesturing to his gold stripes.

“He brought me coffee,” I say, holding up my cup.

Wes runs a hand through his black hair and sighs dramatically. “You never bring me coffee, Cassius.”

And then, out of nowhere, a girl swings her arm around Wesley from behind. He doesn’t even tense at the contact—I do—only smiles as she puts her manicured hands over his eyes.

“Morning, Elle,” he says cheerfully.

Elle—a pretty little thing, bird-thin with bottle-blond hair—actually giggles as she pulls away.

“How did you know?” she squeaks.

Because of your noise, I think drily.

Wesley shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“All the cool powers were taken,” mutters Cash, half into his coffee.

The girl is still hanging on Wesley. Perching on him. Like a bird on a branch. She’s chirping on about some fall dance when the bell finally rings, and I realize I’ve never been so happy to go to class.

It’s a good thing I’ve had two coffees to go with my four hours of sleep, because Mr. Lowell kicks off the day with a documentary on revolutionaries. And whether it’s the healthy dose of caffeine or the strange way the subject sinks its nails in, I manage to stay awake.

“The thing to remember about revolutionaries,” says Lowell, killing the video and flicking on the lights, “is that, while they may be viewed as terrorists by their oppressors, in their own eyes, they are champions. Martyrs. People willing to do what others won’t, or can’t, for the sake of whatever it is they believe in. In a way, we can see them as the most extreme incarnations of a society’s discontent. But just as people elevate their revolutionaries to the station of gods, avenging angels, heroes, so those revolutionaries elevate themselves.…”

As he continues, I picture Owen Chris Clarke, eyes blazing on the Coronado roof as he spoke of monsters and freedom and betrayal. Of tearing down the Archive, one branch at a time.

“But the mark of a revolutionary,” continues Lowell, “is the fact that cause comes first. No matter how elevated the revolutionary becomes in the eyes of others—and in his own eyes—his life will always matter less than the cause. It is expendable.”

Owen jumped off a roof. Took his own life to make sure the Archive couldn’t take his mind, his memories. To make sure that if—when—his History woke, he would remember everything. I have no doubt that Owen would have given or taken his life a hundred times to see the Archive burn.

“Sadly,” adds Lowell, “revolutionaries often find the lives of others equally expendable.”

Expendable. I write the word in my notebook.

Owen definitely saw the lives of others as expendable. From those he murdered to keep his sister a secret, to those he tried to murder—Wesley bleeding out so Owen could make a point—to me. Owen gave me the chance to come with him instead of standing in his way. As soon as I refused, I was worthless to him. Nothing more than another obstacle.

If Owen was a revolutionary, then what does that make me? Part of the machine? The world isn’t that black-and-white, is it? It doesn’t all boil down to with or against. Some of us just want to stay alive.

TEN

AMBER’S LATE TO PHYSIOLOGY, so she has to snag a seat in the back and I have to spend the period studying the nervous system and trying to stay awake. As soon as the bell rings, I’m out of my chair and standing by hers.

“That eager to get to gym?” she asks, packing up her bag.

“Question,” I say casually. “Is your dad a cop?”

“Huh?” Amber’s strawberry eyebrows go up. “Oh, yeah. Detective.” She hoists the bag onto her shoulder and we head into the fray. “Why?”

“I just saw him on the news this morning.”

“Kind of sad, isn’t it?” she says. “I didn’t get to see my dad this morning.”