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and hips. A voice asks us for our destination. “Quincy Market,” Livvy says. We’re spit out of the revolving track and into the PAT Network. I feel the thrill of speed, like I’m in a race car, lights flashing past me, a high-pitched hum peaking as the pod accelerates. My body is pressed back in the seat, my stomach fluttering with the velocity. It’s like a ride at an amusement park, and the closest thing I’ve had to fun since I left California. I don’t want the trip to end.
    The pod voice begins a countdown. “Destination, forty seconds, thirty seconds…”
    “Can we keep going?” I ask.
    “New Destination PAT: Fenway,” Livvy says.
    The pod makes a series of turns and we are speeding in the opposite direction. When we are almost there, Livvy lets me try redirecting the pod. “New Destination PAT: Faneuil Hall.” The pod spins and we head back in the other direction.
    When we’re almost there I try to make another request, but Livvy stops me. “Third strike and you’re out. You can only redirect three times without exiting. They don’t want kids tying up pods for joyrides.” I forgot, kids aren’t supposed to have fun here.
    We exit and walk up the stairs to Congress Street and then over to Quincy Market, just behind Faneuil Hall. I’m excited when I first see it, feeling a familiar rush, remembering all the times Jenna, Kara, and I ate ourselves from one end to the other and then I sat in the food court with packages and my cell phone while Kara and Jenna continued to shop, but as soon as we near the front steps, I stop.
    It’s almost as though I’ve run into an invisible force field. I stare at the crowds, the carts, the kiosks, the entire world that has shifted from the one I knew. It’s all slightly off, like I’m watching a slow-motion movie of a sister city, one that’s trying to imitate the place where I used to live, like every person walking past is an actor on a set. Everything is a degree off, even the smell of the salty air. A chill crawls up my spine.
    It’s not that things have changed—I expected that—but even what I thought would be familiar is foreign now. The people walking in front of me aren’t the ones who are actors. It’s me. I’m the actor. A visitor. Worse, an alien. Is there anyplace left in this world now where I truly belong?
    “Locke?”
    I look at Livvy. She’s turned, waiting for me to follow her. I do. I need to get this Favor over with. The sooner the better. We spend the next two hours walking through the market. She’s friendly with shopkeepers, even those who are Bots, dropping our names, making sure they know I’m her “son.” We walk from one end to the other, and then back down the other side again. We take the free offerings of samples, roasted squab on a stick, candied carrots, spiced curly protein strips, but we don’t buy anything. I have a money card in my pocket that Miesha gave me, but it’s clear that money is in short supply so I don’t waste it on market trinkets or snacks.
    After Quincy Market we walk back to the PAT. Livvy is quiet, occupied with other thoughts, perhaps wondering how she got stuck with the job of being my mother. She’s a small, thin woman, her dark brown hair clipped short, a razor-straight line of bangs cutting across the top of her forehead. She’s articulate, driven, and focused, and seems like she should be carrying a briefcase into a courtroom instead of hanging out in basements with the likes of Xavier.
    “I know the answer’s probably obvious, but I have to ask, are you a Non-pact?”
    She stops walking and looks at me. It’s apparent from her expression that she’s insulted. “Obvious? There’s no good way to take that question, Locke. It’s obvious because I clearly look and act like a Non-pact? Or obvious that I’m not because I don’t look or act like one? Just how do Non-pacts act and look to you?”
    I sigh. “I was led by a Non-pact to a dark basement, where I met you, Livvy. You