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growling.
    Kasey gives me a wave and then he’s heading off, in the same direction that old man went. Both of them are completes, soldiers who know what it’s like to be standing right at the barrier where the division between friend and enemy is most clearly drawn.
    Chord would know, too, having finished his first tour only weeks ago.
    But I learned more about tour duty from Kasey in just a few minutes than I have from Chord, ever.
    He’d report to his sector right after school and not get back to his place until close to midnight. For that long month, our time together was threaded with odd, heavy silences, with Chord sometimes falling into quiet, thoughtful lapses that seemed to come from nowhere. When I asked him what was wrong, his answers didn’t tell me much, always coming down to him just being tired.
    What Kasey just said, about having too much time to think … I bet that was how it was for Chord, too. And now that he’s done and home and acting normal again, I still can’t figure out how real that normal is, or if it’s something he does just for me.
    I head inside the restaurant, where the sounds of people eating and drinking and laughing fill the air just as much as the thick scent of food. The front counter is lined with customers passing the time on their cells as they wait to be seated or for their takeout orders. Cooks and servers are yelling, but there is no anger in their voices, just urgency.
    If there are actives or strikers hiding here, they’ve chosen well. And if there are, I feel sorry for them. Whether actives are running from their Alts or the assassins those Alts hire to kill them, I remember all too well how disappearing into a crowd means having to be someone else, someone not quite real, and you begin to wonder if you can ever really come back.
    A baby’s loud delighted laugh rings through the noise, high and without any reservation. That earlier rush of happiness I felt, the one that drew me here in the first place, comes back, and suddenly everything from a few minutes ago no longer seems so important—the barrier, tours, and the fact that it’ll be my turn soon. I think of Julis back in her office telling me I’m not so hopeless after all and am actually on my way to getting better. If I can make that happen, I can be there for Chord, too.
    But first things first. Food.
    Making my way back to the train station, I’m still adjusting the to-go bag filled with hot noodles against the crook of my arm when I see the Board Operator standing across the street in front of Julis’s office building.
    I freeze, all thoughts of dinner and getting home and Chord suddenly lost in the panic that floods my brain. They know, is what a cold, logical voice whispers into my ear. It sounds a lot like my Alt’s voice, I realize, because it’s mine but not. I shudder. The Board knows you used to be a striker.
    Staring at the Operator, I take in all the details even while a part of me tries to push them away. He’s wearing the gray suit assigned to all Board Operators, complete with tweed shoulder epaulets and polished shoes. His head is shaved smooth enough to have the late-afternoon sun glint off it. Apart from the poppy red handkerchief tucked into his chest pocket to note his rank as a Level 3, he could be mistaken for any Operator. His sheer lack of personality, an utter nothingness that’s carefully maintained by the Board, is as much a part of his uniform as silk and cotton. His sleek black sedan—is it the same one I saw parked alongside the curb, back near the train station outside of Torth?—doesn’t look out of place at all in this part of the Grid.
    He must sense my fear. How else to explain the way the Operator’s head swivels in my direction and stops when he meets my eyes?
    He steps away from the building and starts heading my way and I wonder if he knows he’s approaching a cornered animal. As the distance closes between us and the crowd on the sidewalk instinctively parts to