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name. He wasn’t used to being challenged, even by the people who knew him well. He blinked, and then he smiled wider than I’d seen since he returned.
    “I guess we have that in common, sweater guy. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Adam Fitz.”
    He held his hand out to Stubin, who was so flummoxed he visibly wavered between charmed and irritated. He offered up a wary handshake.
    “Stubin Mansfield. I know who you are.”
    Adam shrugged and looked at the rest of us. “We’re all acquainted then. Let’s rock.”
    We hustled after Adam through an unmarked door that led into some sort of service hallway. He pushed through another door into a dark alley, the nearby smell of exhaust and the whir of traffic beckoning to us. Mercy picked her way gingerly behind Adam, trying and failing to catch his arm as she dodged little pools of street sludge. I watched her like a hawk and secretly wished for her to bite it, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Dora was giggling behind me as Stubin whispered something she couldn’t possibly find funny. It felt lonely.
    A moment of doubt tugged at me. Willed me back to the safety of my hotel room. There were a million ways this mostly innocent outing could go horribly wrong. I was risking disaster going out when the voice was running loose. It could sneak up on me at any moment, and there was no telling what might happen. But I forced myself to keep moving forward.
    There was a minivan cab waiting at the end of the alleyway. Adam must have called for it. He looked over his shoulder and caught my eye. There was something there: an entreaty, a dare, or a warning. I couldn’t tell which.
    The cab door swung open automatically as we approached. Only in Japan. Adam took the front and the rest of us piled in back.
    “So, where are we going, exactly?” Adam asked.
    “Koenji. MegaWatts,” I said.
    Adam turned to the driver. “ Nippon no panku no genten ni tachite kudasai . MegaWatts.”
    He was speaking Japanese. It was impossible not to crush on him when he busted out unexpected intellect like that.
    “I didn’t know you spoke Japanese!” Mercy gushed, tipping forward. She wasn’t going to fade into the background like a wallflower. “What did you say?”
    Adam looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Take us to the origin of Japanese punk.”
    “The origin of Japanese punk?” She looked confused.
    “MegaWatts—it’s a club where the punk movement started in Japan,” he told her.
    “It’s a livehouse,” I corrected.
    “Ahh,” she said, like she had any clue what that meant.
    “In Japan, they call a show a live , and so a venue is called a livehouse ,” Adam explained. His eyes met mine, an almost-smile playing at his lips. My heart beat a little faster.
    “Personally, I prefer classical.” Mercy sniffed.
    “MegaWatts is like the CBGB of Japanese punk,” Stubin chimed in enthusiastically from the way back.
    “You know about CBGB?” Adam asked him, incredulous.
    Adam and I had learned all about the epicenter of the old-school New York punk scene by digging through the confiscated scrapbooks of some once-famous Fellowship member. We’d found the scrapbooks molding alongside the punk rock vinyl—there was all kinds of interesting stuff in the bunker beneath my house. Most of the high-ranking Ministry members were once celebrities, academics, or politicians.
    “Yeah, my dad used to be, like … in a famous punk band or something. He had a stage name but refuses to tell me what it was. Sometimes he talks about the old days.” Then Stubin seemed to think better of it and added, “Mostly just to say how glad he is to be reformed by the Fellowship.”
    Adam and I exchanged a look of disbelief. Dorky Stubin Mansfield’s dad was probably the original owner of our stolen records and the frontman of one of our favorite bands. The silent connection between Adam and me was back, and stronger than ever.
    “Harlow’s the punk rock princess. You’ll have