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The rest of the month slowed down, but not by much. Classes were spent sending messages back and forth on tablets, pretending to take notes on lectures. Hallway walks were spent scheming. Lunches on the lawn were for filling Logan in on Erin's adventuring the night before. “They're still at the stadium,” she'd reported over a series of days. “They call themselves ‘the Dust.' The boys are getting restless, and they're planning something big. Don't worry, though, Logan”—she winked when she told him this part—“you're still at the center of it.”

Every night Erin would sneak out to spy on the Dust in person, since as far as she could figure, it was the only way to listen in. She was always careful, she said, but still it made Logan nervous. “The alternative is that we lose track of their plans,” she'd tell Logan in response. “And then we're back to square one, and you've disappeared within the week.”

This reasoning didn't make Logan any less nervous. But it did twist his arm into accepting the risks Erin was taking.

“What about your dad?” Logan asked at the end of the week. “Can't we go to him yet? We must have enough information at this point.”

“What exactly do we have, Logan? That a group of kids is hanging out in an old stadium. Not exactly a crime, and certainly not one that leads us to Peck. It's circumstantial.”

“I don't care. We need the support,” Logan said. “I mean, what's your dad even been
doing
all month? We're breathing down Peck's neck, and, what? He's twiddling his thumbs up in the Umbrella? If he's so great an agent, you'd think he'd have caught the kid by now.”

“I don't know,” Erin said. “And I can't ask him. All I know is, no matter how late I come home at night, he comes home later. He's staying out of my hair, and he isn't asking questions. That's enough for now.”

2

At that very moment, fifty floors up in the glass of the Department of Marked Emergencies' Umbrella, Mr. Arbitor looked over his intelligence on the tablescreen before him. A ring of agents encircled him, hanging on his every word.

“We have a rogue agent on our hands, boys and girls. A kink in the plan.”

“Police, you think?”

“Not by a long shot. We had a security breach this month. Any o' you suckers hear about that?”

“No, sir,” they chimed. “No.”

“I didn't think so. But two days after I got here, we started picking up a sound feed from the Spokie playground in Central Park. Anyone wanna take credit for that? Anyone even
notice
it?”

Silence.

“Not one of you noticed the twenty-four-hour feed we've been getting of little kids in diapers running in circles around a wooden castle? No? None o' you?”

“We've been busy, sir.”

“Busy doing what? Hm? You clearly haven't been listening to the tape stream. You clearly haven't been out bugging places—”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because not
one
of you has brought to my attention the fact that earlier this month, approximately
your salary's
worth of supplies
was stolen from right under our noses
!”

The agents murmured nervously at the news.

“When I heard the playground stream, I figured one of you clowns must've had a good idea. Last known whereabouts of Megan Steward . . . and a prime location for a private meeting . . . the perfect spot for a little strip of bug tape. So I checked the logbook. Figured a pat on the back must have been in order—for one of you fools, at least—for a little outside-the-box detective work. And yet, there's no record of tape being placed in the park. In fact, there's no record of tape being taken from storage whatsoever. So which one of you forgot to make a note of that, huh? Whose little oversight was that, hm?”

Nervous glances. No one answered.

“Come on, fess up.”

Still nothing.

“None of you. That's what I thought. Because you know what else I found when I went up there to figure out
what in Cylis's name
was going on around here?”

Blank stares.

“
Pounds
of surveillance powder . . .” Mr. Arbitor snapped his fingers. “Gone. Two whole rolls of bug tape . . .” He snapped again. “Vanished. Flash pellets, smoke bombs, pepper spray, chloroform . . .” He snapped a third time, a fourth, a fifth. “Without a trace.” Mr. Arbitor looked every one of his subordinate agents in the eyes. “That's not the work of a police officer. And if it also isn't the work of my own men and women . . . then I'm afraid Spokie's found itself a vigilante.” Mr. Arbitor shrugged theatrically. “But I checked the security logs. No signs of a break-in. None whatsoever. Every single instance of that elevator door opening and closing in as far back as that security record shows—is green.” Mr. Arbitor threw his hands up. “So I'm sorry to say, folks, that I've followed this path as far as it'll take me. I don't think I'm looking at a traitor among us. I might be looking at a bunch of idiots . . . but I don't believe I'm working with traitors. So that makes me just about stumped, people. Now, the intelligence gathered so far is in our favor, so there's reason to think whoever's using our stuff is doing so with our interests in mind. There's reason to think this little sleuth's on our side. But I don't like surprises. And I'm not one to eat a pie if I don't know who's cookin'. Do you catch my drift, agents?”

There was a general nodding of assent.

“I wanna know what this person is up to. Now, I
think
they're up to tracking Peck. Just like us. And maybe they're even a couple steps ahead.
Maybe
they want the little miser just as badly as we do. So more important than
what
, the thing I wanna know is—
why
.” He looked at every one of his DOME agents again, and now he was seeing some excitement among them, an eagerness to please. “
Why
is this little go-getter on our side, risking life and limb for a cause that's not, as far as the public is concerned, anyone's but ours? After all, as far as I've been briefed, we've done a pretty good job o' keepin' Peck's crimes a secret. Don't want to alarm the Marked, after all . . . and don't wanna give any of the more . . .
impressionable
types any bright ideas. So how could anyone out there even know to
look
for this little piker? I'd love some answers to these questions, folks. The
whats
, the
hows
, and the
whys—
those sure would be nice. I sure would love to have 'em.” The agents looked just about ready to bound out the door by this point. “But most of all,” Mr. Arbitor said, grinning, proud of his speech, proud of the results he knew it would yield, “what I want to know, boys and girls—is
who
.”

3

It wasn't until the next day that Erin came back with the news. She'd visited the stadium the night before, like every night, exactly according to plan, but in the morning, her look across the hallway was different. She didn't say hi to Logan, and she didn't say a thing about how the night had gone. Then at lunch, in the open space of the lawn, she called him over, and when he arrived by her side, she gave him a great big hug, rocking back and forth and not letting him go. It was the most affectionate Logan had ever seen her act, anywhere. And everyone was watching.

“What are you doing?” Logan asked.

Erin nuzzled her face against Logan's cheek, her mouth to his ear. Murmurs and laughter spread across the field, but Erin didn't care. With Logan grounded and things as they were, she couldn't figure out any other way to do it. So Erin smiled wide for the whole lawn to see, and then she whispered horribly through clenched teeth, “Act happy. Don't look alarmed. There's a spy in the school. They're watching us.”

Logan tried to pull away, confused and overwhelmed, but Erin wouldn't let him.

“We've been careless. Acting too suspiciously. Revealed too much. Time to make everyone think there's been nothing between us but romance. No more talking business at Spokie Middle. Nothing more in writing. I don't know who they are . . . but they see our every move . . . and they're bringing you to Peck.”

Logan desperately wanted to hear more of what Erin had found out the night before. But he couldn't ask about any of that, because already Erin was reaching out to hold his hand. She forced her smile tight and said excitedly, in the best acting voice she could muster, “Now, isn't that
great
!”

In science & tech lab that afternoon, Ms. Dirkin was teaching about nanotechnology. Logan and his current lab partner, Tom, had been given vials of nanosyrup, nanosleep, nanosolvent, nano-gas, and nanoink, and it was their job to isolate and determine the effects of the technology in each. The nanosyrup was easy— it'd been engineered to taste sweet electronically, without the need for calories or chemicals. The nanosleep was a little more complex, seeming to attack first the cerebral cortex, then the hippocampus, and then the cerebellum: judgment, memory, and motor skills, in that order. But beyond identifying the glowing green sections of the brain scan, Logan was having trouble deciphering what exactly the stuff was
doing
to the rats they'd been given to try it on, and testing the nanosleep on themselves had been strictly forbidden.

“This is stupid,” Tom said. “Do you hate lab as much as I do? Because I really hate lab.”

“Yeah, I kinda hate it.” Logan smiled. “But the stuff is interesting once you figure it out.”

Tom shrugged. “So . . . things seem to be heating up between you and Erin.”

“We've hit it off,” Logan admitted, trying to stay casual.

“You guys dating?” Tom asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Hold this vial for me,” Logan said, refusing to answer the question.

“I hear you two've been spending all of your time together.” Tom smiled, nodding a little in encouragement. “Good job! She's pretty.”

Normally, Logan would be embarrassed by this kind of teasing, but today it only served to make him nervous and edgy. The spy in Spokie Middle could be anyone. Including Tom Dratch.

“We gotta finish this,” Logan said. “We still have the solvent, the gas, and the ink to go.”

Tom scoffed. “Here, look. Solvent—cleans better, no residue. Gas—higher combustion temperatures, more efficient burn rate. Ink—aw, who knows what the nanoink is for anyway? They use it in Marks. Case closed.” Tom scribbled on his tablet as he spoke and turned it off when he finished. “Now stop being such a wuss, and tell me about Erin! What's the deal?”

Suddenly Logan became very uneasy. He narrowed his eyes at Tom.

“Come on, man—I saw you two at lunch. What's she like?”

It was as if Logan didn't even know who he was talking to anymore. Everyone was suspect. “Wouldn't you like to know,” he said coolly.

After that, Logan worked by himself until the bell rang.

“People gossiped about me and my boyfriend at my old school too,” Erin said loudly, laughing casually. “I wouldn't give it too much thought!”

“Erin, this is serious. I'm not your—”

“Stop talking to me, dimwit,” she whispered suddenly, trying not to move her lips. “Everything you say is a risk.” Then she giggled and grabbed Logan's hand, twining her fingers in his.

Logan felt himself begin to blush. “Right,” he said. “Ha-ha.”