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two of this could pay your way through school. You were supposed to be enrolled at the New England Institute of Technology by now, weren’t you?”
    I nod. Silver lining aside, it still burns that I’m not.
    â€œYou still could.”
    The words are like honey to my ears. How could I not be tempted by such an offer? “How would I get in touch with you?” I ask.
    â€œThe card’s tagged. Scan it and I’ll find you.”
    â€œScan it where?”
    â€œAnywhere,” he replies. “It’s a trigger code. The scanner will report back an error on the local system, but the code will pipe out to the aggrenet and do what it’s been designed to do.”
    I look down at the shiny hologram in wonder. Writing a trigger code is easy. Writing a trigger code that is completely undetectable, that’s the hard part. That’s top-level national security type stuff. “How do you slip the data stream past the packet-switching monitors?” I ask.
    This time I see it more clearly. Cyril actually smirks. “Smart kid,” he says.
    Cyril turns and heads toward the stairs. Bigsby takes a moment to fix on me with his cold, slate blue eyes. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him I just don’t like.
    â€œNice talking to you,” I say as he turns to follow.
    This seems to amuse Cyril. “He doesn’t say much, but Bigsby is one hell of a runner.”
    Right , I think. I’ll be the judge of that.
    I return to the card. Arcadian Transports . The name alone reminds me of all the time and effort I spent trying to track these guys down for Dexter. All to no avail. Now it’s all right here in the palm of my hand.
    â€œWhy so hard to locate?” I ask.
    Cyril answers over his shoulder. “They can’t compromise what they can’t find, Jack.”

4
    Later that night, legs shredded and arms dangling like rubber, I make my way home from the bus station after a long day of training. Tonight, I’m not thinking about that. I have other things to think about. I know that running the sneakernet is crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about what Cyril said about making enough money to pay for school. The worst part about having to leave the magnet academy was that I lost access to all the proprietary grants and scholarships that would have paid my way through college. Without those awards, the best schools weren’t even on the table anymore. My plan was to work three or four years after graduation to save up for it. But if I go with Cyril’s offer, I could earn the same amount in one or two. But—is it worth two years of risk to save two years of my life? To be honest, I’m not really sure. But I would be running. Running, even if it’s running from danger, has to beat sitting on my ass for ten hours a day variable-checking the sloppy code of mediocre programmers. Just the thought of it makes me cringe. If ever there was a digital-age analogue to Bartleby the scrivener, that has to be it.
    The stop sign at the end of the block glows octagonal red as a pair of headlights approaches from behind. Ordinarily, a slow approach at this time of night would have me bouncing on my toes, but this one comes with a familiar squeal that I know all too well. I let the beat-up pickup truck pull up alongside me.
    â€œHello, Jack,” smiles the old teacher through his Santa Claus beard. It’s Mr. Chupick, my faculty advisor.
    â€œHey, Mr. Chupick.”
    â€œCan I give you a ride?”
    â€œIf it isn’t out of your way.”
    Mr. Chupick shoots his thumb at the giant water tank mounted to the flatbed that still has some slosh to it. “Hop in,” he says, “I’m just running the rest of the water around town.”
    Mr. Chupick lives on a small farm on the outskirts of town. He grows some produce and maintains some livestock, but mostly he draws water from his well and supplies it to those around