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impolite!” she scolds as the carriage rides away.
    Every hair on my arm stands on end as I follow their carriage out of sight. Because there are more carriages. Dozens of them. And there are men and women walking by, giving me strange looks. The men have on top hats and suits, the women long, sweeping dresses. A man passes by me with a torch, lighting the streetlamps.
    I blink.
    This is real.
    There is no way you can fake this. You can’t fake the entire city of Boston.
    My eyes fly back to the Public Garden. To the pond. It’s dusk, but there’s enough light that I can see as clear as day that there aren’t any swan boats on that lake. I have to be stuck in a different time, a time before there were any swan boats.
    A young man bumps his shoulder into mine and immediately jumps back.
    “Oy!” he yells. “Watch where you’re going.” He looks me up and down, and I do the same. This guy is probably about my age, but that’s where the similarity ends. His clothes are dirty and torn, and his hair is unwashed. A layer of grime coats his skin, although even that doesn’t conceal the acne covering nearly every inch of his face. And then he takes a step toward me. I have at least four inches on him.
    “Give me your money,” he demands.
    I don’t think so. This little punk is not going to rob me—not like I have any money on me anyway.
    “No,” I tell the pint-size thug.
    He reaches into his pocket, and I see a flash of metal. I grab his arm, twist it around, and force the knife out of his hand. It clatters to the cobblestone street. That makes two knife attacks I’ve deflected in one day.
    A woman screams a few yards away, and there’s a scuffling of footsteps as people try to get away. Two policemen wearing tall domed hats and carrying nightsticks push through the crowd to get to us.
    Do not interact with anyone. Alpha’s warning rings in my ears once again. But this time I ignore it.
    I’ve already talked to this boy. I can’t let these cops catch me. Best-case scenario, they’ll want to talk. Worst-case, they’ll pitch me into a jail cell.
    I push the punk kid to the ground and take off down the same street as before. I round the corner to the street lined with brownstones, then look back. The cops aren’t following me. I pause and wait, just to make sure, but no one comes. Dodged a bullet there. But I’ve got to get out of these clothes. They’re killing me.
    My hand starts tingling. The knapsack. I’d forgotten about it, even though I’m clutching it so hard the pattern of the cloth’s weaving is embedded in my skin. I kneel down and drop it into my lap. I fiddle with the tie until it opens, then I upend it. A mess of black fabric and a black, metal, twisted skeleton key fall into my lap. I set the key aside and unfurl the fabric. It’s a dress. It’s full-length with long sleeves, and that’s about all there is to it. I’ve never done more than sew a button on to a shirt, but I bet I could make this thing myself.
    Still, it beats khaki pants in terms of blending in, so I glance both ways to make sure no one’s coming. The entire street is deserted. I slip my blazer and shirt over my head. For one quick second I look down at the red lump on my forearm. Where there’s now a tracker. A tracker .
    I yank on the ugly dress and grunt as I try to wriggle it down my body. I kick off my shoes, slip off my pants, and hop up, swishing my hips side to side as I try to pull down the dress. It barely makes it. And I mean barely makes it. The seams are stretched so tight I see them straining, as if they’re about to give up and split open.
    Please don’t split open, I tell them.
    I can barely move, so bending over is out of the question. I catch the strap of the knapsack with my toe and kick it up in the air. My fingers snatch it, and I shove my hand in to pull out the shoes . . . only there are no shoes. The sack is empty.
    Of course it is.
    I shove my feet back into my Peel-issued oxfords, and