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which would weaken one’s effectiveness, completes are the ones who decide when to do a tour, as long as one is done each calendar year. “I still have to be signed off. It’s legit with the Board. My counselor sent in my data.”
    “This is not about a tour,” he answers, his gaze still fixed on me. I refuse to squirm, though it’s like being an insect speared to a board and trying to not flail helplessly.
    “What if I say no?” I say to him.
    The Operator’s eyes narrow even farther, his mouth tightening just a fraction, and for a second I’m sure I’m wrong about them not knowing about my striker past. I’ve simply taken too much from Kersh in exchange for survival, and this is where it ends.
    “You are not given the option of refusal,” he says finally.
    “I know where headquarters is.” Already I can see it in my head. A behemoth of a building, the brain of the filtration system is located at the heart of Leyton Ward. “I can get there myself.” I’ll have to. They’ll only find me again if I don’t. But if I can avoid getting into that soul-sucking black car, from which there’s only skin-peeling, bone-crushing concrete to catch me if I feel the need to escape—
    “Immediately and without further delay, and you are not given the option of refusal,” the Operator repeats. “This way, please.” Without waiting for me to reply, he turns away, another attempt to leave.
    There’s nothing left for me to counter with. So that’s it. One single demand and I’m once again at the mercy of the Board.
    The flash of memories, of my time on the run, of my time on the hunt. Of days both fleeting and endless. Hunger and pain, fear and hate. The Board didn’t notice me then, so why now?
    It’s this question that nips at my heels as I slowly follow him to the car. I’m vaguely aware of the package of noodles clasped against myself, and how it’s gone cold.

Chapter 3
    Most of Kersh’s general public has no reason to enter the thick glass doors of the Board’s headquarters. I always thought it would be like walking into a sniper’s field. Now, standing here in the main entryway, I still believe it, still half expecting to not make it out alive. It’s my first time here, and already I think it’s one time too many.
    My initial registration for counseling meant going to one of the satellite buildings. Even people wanting babies go straight to the lab, another satellite building located directly behind this main one. So unless a person is working directly for the Board or lives here in the apartments reserved for families of Operators, headquarters isn’t a place where someone would go. There’s a sense that just by being here—standing in this lobby where the floor is pristine, the windows naked and pure—I’m marring its cold perfection.
    Someone murmurs politely behind me, all cool and perfectly clipped syllables, and I quickly move aside for her to pass. A well-dressed lady, her navy suit perfectly tailored and shot through with cream pinstripes. Not an Operator but someone connected to the Board in some way, considering she’s here. As she walks away, my eyes follow her, then catch on a man dressed just as smartly heading across the lobby in a different direction. One more person making up the quietly milling crowd in front of me. I see some Board Operators now, that shade of familiar gray flitting through like ominous clouds. The elevator opens with a soft whoosh, and some teenagers step out into the lobby. They are just like me, but of course, not like me at all. They are Board Alts, children and relatives of Operators, and if not already completes, they most likely will be.
    I look away from them and take in the rest of the room.
    The lobby is a huge expanse of wide-open space, amplified by the soaring height of the ceiling, the sheen of slick ceramic floor, and the glare of cool, clean sunlight flowing in through wide, bare windows. At the far end is the building’s main tower; from here,