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watching the Special Forces agent interrogate her. She didn’t cry. Her fists clenched and unclenched, and she accepted the citation without a word.
    The hovercopter zipped away, and that’s when Violet crumpled to the ground. Her shoulders shook with racking sobs.
    Then I did what any thirteen-year-old boy would do: I dropped the shades and crawled into bed.
    *   *   *
    Saffediene Brown sat immediately to my right, frantically writing a report for Jag. Though we were the same age, she reminded me of myself when I first began serving the Resistance. She’d joined a month after I’d arrived in Freedom.
    In fact, Saffediene had been my first recruit for the Insiders.
    She finished writing, folded the paper, and put her hand on mine. I shook my thoughts away from Vi and that first night inmy bedroom and jerked at the contact from Saffediene. She pulled her hand back and hid it under the table. Her eyes flickered to mine, a small smile playing on her face.
    “Zenn?” she said, still watching me. Just like everyone else was doing.
    “Indy and her team are drinking protein like there’s no tomorrow,” I said, stuffing my hand in my pocket as I stood. My skin felt hot where Saffediene had touched me. “They’ll be on mandatory rest this week, and then we’ll get them into rotations for duties.”
    I nodded toward Pace, who stood and started droning on about some new tech he’d invented that would eliminate the squealing in new implants. When Thane had first brought me beyond the wall of Freedom to this cavern, I’d barely recognized Pace.
    The smile that used to come quickly to his lips now took longer. His eyes were dull, and Pace’s long, silver hair didn’t get washed enough, but I suspected that wasn’t the only reason for its lackluster appearance.
    When Tyson Schoenfeld died, a big piece of Pace Barque did too. I’d been present when she’d been killed, but the memories of those weeks are shrouded. I’d been brainwashed and medicated, with only moments of lucidity.
    Thane had told me the story of Ty’s death. It had agedhim too, though I didn’t comfort him. The first time I saw Pace here in the hideout, though, I had gripped him in a hug that said more than We’re on the same team.
    It had said, Please forgive me. I did what I thought was right. I miss Ty too.
    He’d understood, and he’d freely given his forgiveness—something Jag sucked at doing. I watched Pace now and noticed he’d revived a bit since Jag’s return. I was reminded of when I first joined the Resistance, when Pace and Jag would embrace after months apart. They’d laugh about Irvine’s seriousness and throw wads of paper at Indy as she snored on the couch.
    I longed for the more carefree days of the Resistance, when the thought of battling the Thinkers only happened in our imaginations. It was easier then to feel like They were robbing the general population of their free will. I’d believed in the cause of the Resistance with my whole heart. No one should have to conform to a job, a marriage, a life they hated simply because someone with persuasive powers deemed it so.
    So the Resistance fought talent with talent. They had Thinkers. So did we. They had voice talent. So did we. They also had vastly more personnel, many and diverse ways to find our strongholds, and untold resources.
    We had Jag Barque.
    Back before I turned Informant, me, Pace, and Jag would sit around the kitchen table in Jag’s house, making grand plans and playing cards. Sure, we ran minor missions, sent messages, and attended training in Seaside with Vi’s older sister, Tyson.
    Ty had the unique ability to make you think you were the most important person in the world. Vi had worshipped her. I’d rescued Ty from the Goodgrounds, helped her through the desert to the Badlands, and passed her off to Jag. Pace had been there, and I still remember the first time he met Ty.
    I was young—a few months shy of fourteen—and rescuing Ty was my first solo