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occupies the whole of the eighth and ninth floors. Most of the living quarters are on the ninth floor. Above that is a rooftop garden.
    “Raine dabbles in bonsai and is sometimes seen up there.”
    They’re watching her. Watching everything. I find it unsettling that this girl has become a target just by virtue of being the Secretary’s daughter. As Livvy finishes up with a few last details about the guard who works the front desk of the Tudor Apartments, I hear Xavier and Carver speaking in strained hushed tones in the next room. I try to listen but Livvy speaks louder, like she’s trying to mask their voices.
    “Any questions, Locke?” she asks, demanding that I become engaged in our conversation.
    “They’re arguing,” I say.
    She shrugs and whisks some V-files back into their folders. “What else is new? It’s nothing for you to be concerned with.”
    But I am. “Not a good sign for two guys on the same team.”
    “Their differences are smaller than their mutual goal. That’s all that matters.” She stands. “Come on. It’s time for Mother and Son to go for a walk in the city. You need to be up to date on that too. We can’t have you gawking at changes like you’re an alien who’s just landed.”
    As far as I know, no real alien life has landed, so I’ll assume she means that figuratively, but I can’t help but feel there’s some hint of implication in her remark too. “What about your health? According to the files, you aren’t well.”
    “According to the files, I’m also rich. I guess for now, we’ll have to ignore the files because I guarantee neither one of us will be spending any money.”
    As we leave, Carver and Xavier are hunched over large sheets of yellowed paper, running their fingers along faint lines I can barely see from across the room. It looks like they’re viewing maps or very old architectural drawings. They both shoot us dark glances while they bring their voices down to barely mumbled whispers. But I can still see their lips.
    wait till he leaves
    can’t trust
    not time
    And then they both lean forward, their hands casually tucked just beneath their noses, guarding their mouths.
    Livvy pushes me through the door and shuts it behind her. Who can’t they trust? Me? Each other? Livvy?
    She leads me down Charles Street toward the Boston Public Garden. “How did you get around town when you lived here?” she asks.
    “I walked or took the T.”
    “You were familiar with the T, then?”
    “Sure. I had to take it to school. Pretty much everywhere. I lived off the green line. My school was on the red line, my grandparents the blue. Other family on the orange. I had a pass so I used them all. Are we taking the T where we need to go?”
    “There is no T anymore. At least not usable trains. It was abandoned long ago. But the tunnels still run under the city.”
    “No T?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine Boston without the T.
    “It’s been replaced by Personal Automated Transportation. You do have your new ID on you, right?”
    I nod.
    “Then let’s take PAT for a spin.”
    We walk down steps at the corner of Charles and Beacon to a brightly lit cavern with a revolving platform. Like the T, the PAT is only steps beneath the city, but unlike the T, it doesn’t go down several stories. It’s a sleek network just below the surface, sometimes even passing through basements of buildings, not much more intrusive than a ventilation duct. The pod cars are small and streamlined, only meant to hold one to two passengers. I’m dubious when I see their size and don’t see how Livvy and I will both fit into one pod. They circulate slowly on an oval track by the platform until a passenger steps in.
    We approach a pod with its hatch open waiting for a passenger. “That one,” Livvy says, and pushes me toward it. “Just get in and lie back. The pod does the rest.” Livvy jumps in and I follow. The hatch closes and the seat molds around me, holding me securely around my head