Incognito

By Katie Delahanty

In the virtual utopia of the Simulation, everyone will live peacefully and without fear or needs—at least that’s how they’re selling it. But the government plans to use this program to take control of the entire human race. Elisha Dewitt has just been given her first mission to help prevent this, and she’s ready to prove she can go incognito just as well as any other master thief.

Breaking and entering? No sweat. She’s done worse. Stealing a cassette tape from the museum vaults will be easy—in, out, done—until he shows up...and everything gets way more complicated. Garrett Alexander just has that effect.

Nothing is as it seems, and a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse begins with Garrett, her rival and match in every way. Not knowing who she can trust, Elisha decides it’s up to her to rescue everyone—even Garrett—before the world as she knows it comes to a brutal end.

The Keystone series is best enjoyed in order.
Reading Order:
Book #1 Keystone
Book #2 Incognito

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682815045

Book preview

For Diane

Thanks for all the deep talks.

Everybody looks alike and acts alike, and we’re getting more and more that way. I think everybody should be a machine. I think everybody should like everybody. You do the same thing every time. You do it over and over again. –Andy Warhol

Chapter One

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

I smooth the short, jagged bangs of the black wig I wear as I exit the bathroom stall, pausing in front of the mirror to adjust the hair so the choppy layers frame my face and finish at my jaw. Satisfied my straight black eyebrows are in place, and the orange bars painted above my right eye and below my left haven’t smudged, I take a deep breath.

This is only my second real-world heist, and my first alone. Part of me can’t believe I’m going through with it, and as I stare at the face reflected in the mirror—the face I’m confident looks nothing like the real me—my pulse quickens. I’ve planned every detail, rehearsed every move, and I’m certain Allard wouldn’t give me a job I couldn’t complete. I was made for this. At least so I tell myself. I’m still waiting for adrenaline to kick in, and my fingers tremble as I swipe gloss across my temporarily full lips then stretch them into a knowing smile. Willa’s smile.

As far as my date for tonight knows, my name is Willa Miniex, and I’m an art Influencer studying at Carnegie Mellon University. For the two weeks I’ve been casing the Andy Warhol Museum, I’ve fooled their facial recognition (FR) cameras into believing I’m her by wearing a black, flat top cap that was a parting gift from Professor Allard, my mentor at Keystone—the secret school where I’ve been learning to steal analog history for the last year. The hat’s visor is wired with tiny infrared LED lights that are invisible to the human eye. When they’re arranged to shine on my face correctly, they can trick FR technology into reading my features as someone else’s. But I can’t wear the hat tonight because the lights have been rearranged to make my face read as my date’s later on. And though I’ve managed to make myself look enough like the real Willa to deceive the human eye, I have no hope of tricking the artificially intelligent ones. Instead, I’m relying on Disconnect makeup to keep the cameras from placing me at all—or recognizing me as my true identity, Influencer Ella Karman.

I pucker my lips, forcing a flirtatious sparkle into my eyes, mimicking one of the real Willa’s favorite expressions from her Network feed that I’ve obsessed over.

Hi. I’m Willa, I say to her—my—reflection, willing her essence to shine out my pores. I’m Willa. My brain buys in, even if my heart scoffs.

Click.

I jerk my chin over my shoulder and scan the empty bathroom, holding my breath, waiting for clacking heels to signify someone is coming. But all is silent. I might be hearing things, but some deeper part of me knows I’m rightfully on edge. This night won’t go as planned.

They never do.

With a glance at my wrist screen, I note the time. 8:23. The clock starts now. I straighten my skimpy black dress, clenching my stomach muscles against the hollowness in my core. After confirming my infrared goggles, grappling hook, LED hat and scrambrella—an umbrella designed to scramble all tracking signals, rendering me virtually invisible—are safely tucked inside in my handbag, I drape the beaded strap across my body and head for the exit. My high-heeled boots echo across the cement floor and my head swims with the possibility my footsteps are loud enough to alert security to my presence.

I’m here to steal an audio cassette from one of Andy Warhol’s Time Capsules and if I get caught, it will not only mean the end of my career as a thief, but it could put me back on the grid—back in the public eye—and I’ll do anything to avoid returning to my old, apathetic Influencer life.

I pause at the bathroom door, listening, my legs quivering, ready to run. The only sound is my heart tick-tocking in my ears. Don’t think. Just go. Sometimes it takes hurling yourself into the unknown to find your place. I should know. As far as most of society is concerned, I’ve been dead for a year.

And look at me now.

I inch into the hall, allowing the FR cameras to scan my face for the first time, and officially putting myself on the museum’s radar.

Willa may have been invited to this evening’s party, but my image won’t match with anyone on the guest list. The other people attending tonight’s charity event entered the building through the museum doors on Sandusky Street, submitting to a biometric eye scan that matched their DNA to the guest list before they were admitted to the festivities in the ground floor lobby. I didn’t have time to obtain AMPs—contact lenses that allow me to see augmented reality and could also disguise my eyes as Willa’s—so I made my own entrance, using a retractable grappling hook to climb up an outside wall to an opening in the garage near the freight entrance. After that I hid beneath my scrambrella to remain off the grid while I snuck into the museum’s basement restroom.

This is the moment of truth.

Half expecting an alarm to sound or for somebody to tackle me from behind, I walk down the hall past windows overlooking the (thankfully empty) worktables in the conservation labs with my back so rigid it aches. When I reach the elevator, I press the up button and wait. Tick tock, tick tock. My heart keeps time in my ears while my hands turn clammy inside my elbow-length gloves.

I know from the weeks I’ve spent cozying up to Tyson, my date for tonight, that the AI security system does its best to recognize and profile everyone in the museum, but it’s not perfect. The inconsistency reports are monitored by lowly humans. And that’s the downfall of the security at the Warhol I’m banking on.

Tonight, those humans—aspiring artists from the Maker caste, like Tyson, who act as docents in addition to chaperoning the artwork—will hopefully be distracted by their very rich—and increasingly sweaty—guests. On my way inside the museum, I cut the wires that lead to the air conditioning units from both the solar system and the backup batteries, and I’m hoping this hot August night will buy me extra time. Even though the guards will be busy with the cooling systems, they’ll come looking for me when I can’t be placed or matched to anyone on the guest list. Tyson told me they review the reports at a quarter after every hour, so I know the next check will be at 9:15. I’m hoping my air conditioning stunt will stall the inspection, though I can’t count on it. Ideally, if all goes as planned, I’ll be long gone by then.

If all goes as planned. I nearly snort. It never does. Expect the unexpected. Somehow, knowing that things beyond my control will happen, that I’ll have to stay on my toes, that I won’t let myself become complacent, unknots my spine and I swallow the laughter.

The elevator arrives and the doors slide open, revealing a blessedly empty car with drab gray walls. I step inside and press a gloved finger to the button for the first floor. The doors close and the car sails skyward, my blood pressure mounting with each passing second until my sinuses clear, a signal that adrenaline is kicking in. Finally.

I slip my purse strap over my head, adjusting it so it easily falls off my shoulder, and when the doors open again, I’m met with a blast of heat and the chattering din of a cocktail party. The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Sandusky Street, casting groups of fancy people sipping cocktails out of Campbell’s Soup cans, for the benefit of the UPMC Children’s Hospital, in an orange glow. No guards are waiting, guns drawn, to escort me off the premises and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Willa takes hold as I exit the elevator. She’s pins and needles pricking the muscles in my face, coming to life. Her presence heavy in my forehead, I look through her eyes and spot Tyson right away. Most of the color in the stark lobby comes from the colorful pop art lining the walls but with his messy, bleached-white hair sticking up on all sides, and wearing a mustard button-down shirt with giant white cuffs and burgundy leather pants, it’s as if Andy Warhol himself is leaning casually against a cement column in the middle of the party. If Andy Warhol was in his early twenties and staring off into space, probably scrolling through the Network on his AMPs, that is.

Squaring my shoulders, I slink around bar-height tables draped in yellow cloth printed with Warhol’s magenta cows, my confidence mounting that my disguise has carried me this far, until I come to a stop in front of Tyson. Fooling him is the least of my worries. He’s accepted my face as Willa’s from day one, otherwise only knowing her from her Network feed. Nobody expects people to look as flawless as their feeds in unfiltered real life.

He turns his focus to me, slowly registering recognition. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

Really? I tip my head to the side. I’m right here.

It’s no wonder I couldn’t find you. His eyes graze the length of my low-cut, asymmetrical dress. The longer half of the gown covers my tool garter, while the shorter half exposes plenty of leg.

I barely recognize you without your hat and glasses, he says, his accent charmingly British. He smiles as he takes me in. You look amazing.

He moved here from England and has dreams of catapulting to Influencer status through the work-study program at the Warhol. I don’t have the heart to tell him good luck with that even though I know the chances of anyone ascending from Maker to Influencer status are about as likely as winning a free trip to the moon. And it’s a bummer I kind of like him, because I’m only using him for his security access. But Keystone code. No falling for the target.

Did you think I was on the ceiling? I playfully squeeze his arm. I feel like I could have done jumping jacks in front of you and you wouldn’t have noticed.

In those heels? He eyes my strappy black boots.

You’d be surprised what I can get away with in these heels. I wink.

Not much, I don’t think. I see everything. He taps the corner of his eye with his right middle finger and the cuff of his sleeve lowers, revealing the blue bracelet I need to get my hands on if I want my plan to work. It will grant me access to the archives that house the Time Capsules which have a code that changes every day, so I had to wait until tonight to steal it.

I was searching the security cameras for you. He purses his lips.

I raise my eyebrows. You have AMP security access? I thought you weren’t going to work tonight. I jut out my lower lip in a pretend pout.

Don’t worry. I’m technically on duty, but nobody here is a threat. I’m all yours. It’s just weird I couldn’t find you on the security screens.

Maybe because I was in the Underground bathroom? There aren’t cameras in there. I shrug and change the subject. Is it just me or is it really hot in here?

He frowns. The air conditioning broke. Hottest night of the summer, too. It could be affecting the security system.

Possibly.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Someone else will deal with it. He offers me his right arm like he’s a proper gentleman. Would you like to accompany me to the clouds?

The fifth floor is open? I thought they liked to keep everyone downstairs for events. I link arms with him, resting my fingers lightly on his wrist as he leads me to the elevators.

Fifth, sixth, and seventh are open. There’s a super-special donor who pulled some strings and they’re sneak previewing the new cloud augmentation tonight. We enter the elevator and at the same time as he pushes the button for the fifth floor with his left hand, I press the button that releases the clasp on the access bracelet and remove it from his right wrist.

He doesn’t notice a thing.

That’s cool, but I love the clouds without augmentation. I don’t think they need it, I say, pressing a gloved hand to my forehead and dabbing at the moisture forming from the sweltering night, while accidentally dropping my purse.

Me, too, he says as we both bend to retrieve my bag. But you’ve got to see this. It’s brilliant.

We almost knock heads and burst out laughing.

I’ve got it. I giggle, rubbing my head as I scoop up my purse, seamlessly hiding the bracelet inside as I drop the identical decoy-bracelet I brought with me on the floor.

Is this yours? I pick up the fake bracelet and offer it to him.

The elevator doors open, and he grabs at his wrist. Oh yeah, I don’t know how it came off. I’d be in big trouble if I lost it. This grants access to every room in the building. He fastens the decoy-bracelet in place.

Glad I found it, then. I smile.

We exit the elevator into the echoey warehouse that is home to Warhol’s paintings from the 1970s and are met with an oppressive wall of air that makes it hard to breathe. Much like the lobby, the only color in the space comes from the paintings lining the white walls. It is furnished with couches covered in white parachute material, but otherwise, the stark gallery is empty. Probably because it’s trying to suffocate us.

Tyson picks up two Campbell’s Soup cans from a bar as we pass it, and hands me one. The outside of the can is slippery with condensation and I resist the urge to press the icy drink to my throat.

Thank you. I take a micro-sip of the cocktail, relieved it tastes like sweet blackberries and basil—not tomato soup—though I don’t plan on drinking it anyway. I need to keep my wits about me.

Tyson leads me to a small rectangular room on the far side of the gallery. The cloud exhibit, with its white walls and wood floors, is filled with dozens of shiny, pillow-shaped balloons. The silver pillows slowly bounce about the space, seemingly as they please, on the breeze from strategically placed fans.

I leave Tyson’s side and the floorboards creak under my feet as I walk to the center of the room. Careful to avoid the security camera’s watchful gaze, I stand alone in the center of the space, letting the clouds dance around me. Isolated in a reflective heaven, I am overwhelmed by the peace that overtakes me, and I marvel at the magic in the exhibit’s simplicity.

One of my jobs is to take care of the balloons, Tyson says, joining me.

I refocus my attention on him, bringing my head out of the clouds. You’re a cloud-wrangler? I shift my drink to one hand and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on his chest. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.

Oh yes. It’s a big responsibility, he says with pretend seriousness, wrapping his fingers around mine. It takes around three minutes to inflate a cloud and some of them last seven days while others, not so much. Valve malfunctions are a real problem.

Fascinating. I hold back a giggle.

But are you ready for the real trick? He stares off into space, directing his AMPs with his eyes. You’re wearing AMPs, right?

Actually, I’m not. Still holding my drink, I push my glove down with my thumb, so I can flash him my untraceable wrist sticker screen. Mine are in the shop. The truth is, I am wearing contacts, but only to disguise the color of my eyes, making them appear slate blue. They aren’t connected to the internet.

I’ll find you some AR glasses, then. Don’t move. I’ll be right back. He heads out of the room.

I’ll be waiting, I call after him. Unless I melt.

I’ll hurry, he promises as he disappears around the corner.

Once he’s out of sight, I glance at my wrist. 8:39. It’s been less than twenty minutes. I should go now, get the tape. If I see him again, I’ll tell him I went to get some air. But if all goes well, I won’t see him again.

A tiny burst of heat erupts in my brain, interrupting my thoughts and sending a jolt of electricity down my spine. Despite the stifling night, goose bumps shoot up my arms and familiar buzzing begins between my ears. Even though I was alone in this room mere seconds ago, I detect someone’s presence behind me and I know who it is before I turn around.

There’s only one person who can sneak up on me.

Chapter Two

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

I whip around, anticipating the Garrett I remember—the boy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since he left me stranded in a tree house five months ago—the one with the chiseled jaw and smooth complexion, his dark hair mussed to obscure one eye. Instead, I’m met with an attractive older man wearing a black turtleneck and a blazer, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short.

He must be baking under that mask. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s Garrett beneath the disguise. I’d recognize the glint in those eyes anywhere.

Willa. He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. What a nice surprise. His fingers circle my wrist, and he positions us directly under the security camera, where it won’t record us. I haven’t seen you since you were in my life drawing class. I’ll never forget how easily you always blushed when we sketched nude models.

Professor. I narrow my eyes, surprised he knows my cover name. "It’s so nice to see you with clothes on. I’m still not sure it was appropriate for you to be the model. What are you doing here?" Also, where have you been? Why did you ditch me? What did the message you left me mean? A dozen more questions collide in my mind.

The same thing you are. He laughs and drops my wrist.

My stomach clenches, hoping that’s not true, that he’s not after the tape, all the while knowing wishing him away is pointless.

I’ve got competition.

You know what I always say. Expect the unexpected. His glittering gaze is probing but I don’t back down.

I was prepared for the unexpected, but this? Not this. Swallowing my panic, I stare at the amused tilt of his head. The silver pillows sparkle in my periphery and it’s not the first time I’ve thought he’s the most irritating person on earth. We face off, the magical clouds drifting around us, our reflections bouncing in all directions.

Do you remember? His voice softens.

How could I ever forget? I snap to cover for all the nights I’ve stayed up dreaming about seeing him again, endlessly succumbing to a fantasy where, with a quick tug, he pulls me toward him and suddenly his lips are on mine, his fingers tangled in my hair. I try not to respond. I don’t want to kiss him back, but I momentarily lose control. Much like that night in the tree house, my body doesn’t obey. Thinking about it now, my skin hums to life, my arm hairs raising in response to his electric energy.

I won’t let you forget. He breaks the silence.

What if I want to? I whisper, shaking my head to clear the absurd fantasy.

His eyes hold mine a second longer and he thumps his hand over his heart.

Warmth rushes through me and my brain goes on the fritz. Part of me is throbbing with connectedness to him while the rest is scrambling to build a barricade against him. I check my instincts, but I’m all mixed up. That night we shared seems like a fuzzy dream. It’s not hard to convince myself I misinterpreted his intentions, to chalk the whole thing up to post-heist adrenaline. After all, if what we had was real, then why would he be after the tape? Because the only thing I know for certain is, I have to get the tape before he does.

Here you go. Tyson returns with a pair of black-framed glasses in hand.

Tyson. With a jolt my focus returns to my mission and I jump away from Garrett. Meet Professor—

Humbolton. Garrett extends a hand to Tyson. Willa is one of my most attentive students. I taught her everything she knows.

It’s seriously all I can do to keep from kicking him in the shins.

Professor Humbolton. Tyson comes to a halt, his jaw dropping. It’s an honor to meet you. Thank you for financing this exhibit and opening it for everyone tonight. He takes the Professor’s offered hand and gives it a quick shake.

Tyson was about to show me the new cloud augmentation. I drape myself over Tyson, winding my right arm around his. "I had no idea you were behind it, Professor, but I should have known. So clever." Somehow, I manage to stay in character, though it takes everything not to roll my eyes.

Professor Humbolton/Garrett’s mouth twitches as he turns his full attention to me, sending a ridiculous shiver of sparks all the way to my toes. I’d love to hear what you think of it.

Are you wearing AMPs, Professor? I lift my chin, pretending hot chills aren’t pulsating through me. We can experience it together right now if you are.

Unfortunately, no. The darn things give me a headache. Professor Humbolton/Garrett frowns. But I’ll go get myself some of those glasses. He breaks our connection and turns to Tyson. Where did you find them, son?

They’re behind the lobby bar, Tyson says. Just ask the bartender. He’ll hook you up.

Thank you. Before Professor Humbolton/Garrett goes, he takes my hand that is holding my drink and carefully lifts it to his lips, kissing the back of it without spilling the cocktail. It’s wonderful seeing you, Willa. I’ll be back in a couple minutes, but you two have fun until then.

Good seeing you, too. Gritting my teeth, I watch over Tyson’s shoulder as he leaves, knowing he has no intention of coming back. My legs itch to follow him and I glance at Tyson’s wrist screen. 8:45. Time to move.

Tyson hands me the glasses. Are you ready?

I can’t wait. I mask my mounting nerves with a bright smile and take a step back to create some space between us as I put on the glasses. The room instantly transforms. Now filled with mirrors and tiny multicolored floating lights, it’s like I’m standing in a galaxy of stars—a nebula—glittering and reflecting infinitely off the silver clouds as they bump around me.

Isn’t it awesome? Tyson’s voice comes from somewhere to my right, but I can’t see him. In this version of reality, we don’t exist. It’s based on Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror exhibit. Professor Humbolton is a genius to combine it with the clouds.

Total genius. It grates against my every nerve to agree. But you know, it’s making me a little dizzy. I press my hand to my throat. I’m actually not feeling so well. Raking my fingers over the glasses, I pull them off my face. Maybe it’s the heat. I’m going to run to the restroom and splash some water on my face.

Let me come with you. Tyson must blink his AMPs back to my reality because I suddenly feel seen.

No, don’t, I plead. Stay. Enjoy this. The restrooms are all the way in the Underground, right? I’ll meet you in the lobby in a few minutes.

I’m not letting you go alone. You look like you might pass out. Besides, we can use the restrooms on the second floor. He waves his blue access bracelet at me. It’ll be more private there.

Okay, fine. I sigh, not having time to argue. But let’s hurry.

He slips his arm around my waist and rushes me through the gallery. We ditch our Campbell’s Soup cans on the bar as we pass it and I lean against him, my lungs heaving, while we wait for the elevator to arrive. Once the doors open, we step inside, and he presses the button for the second floor. I hold my hand over my mouth like I might throw up.

You’re going to be fine. Almost there. He cradles me against his chest, stroking my hair.

I nod, barely moving my head, like the effort hurts my neck, all the while keeping my toes from tapping out their impatience. Garrett could be stealing the tape right now.

The elevator doors open, and Tyson ushers me to the restroom.

You can leave me here, I whisper once we reach the door. Thank you. I’ll meet you downstairs.

I’ll wait out here. I’m not leaving you.

That’s so nice of you. Pressing my lips together, I make a show of swallowing, like I’m going to vomit any second. I might be awhile, but please don’t come in. It would be embarrassing for me.

I get it. He squeezes my arm. But yell if you need me.

With a weak smile, I slip inside the empty restroom. The moment the door closes behind me, I throw my shoulders back and head straight to a stall similar to the one I got ready in earlier. My plan was to lose Tyson at the party, take the elevator to the Time Capsules on the third floor, use his access bracelet to gain entrance and my scrambrella to let me move under the FR camera’s radar, but I’ll make this work. I did my research, mapped multiple possible routes and scenarios. I can get to the Time Capsules from here.

I lock myself in the stall and climb onto the back of the toilet then take a wad of string and my infrared goggles from my bag. After tugging the goggles on to protect my eyes, I grab the tiny electric saw, equipped with a diamond blade, that I keep in my tool garter. With a click, the blade whirs to life. Sparks fly and I fight to keep my hands steady as the saw slices through the metal air conditioning grates. Once the panel comes loose, I turn it sideways, thread the string through a center grate, and tie a knot on the backside. Keeping hold of the free end of the string, I slide the vent inside the duct, then grip the exposed ledge and haul myself up inside the opening. My arms shake with the strain from the pull-up—now I understand why everyone at Keystone is so buff—and I use the top of the stall as leverage to heave my body up into the duct.

Lying safely on my stomach in the metal passage, I push the infrared goggles up onto my forehead. It’s pitch black in here, so they won’t do me any good. The grate rubs against my thighs and the vent is cramped. There isn’t room for me to sit up or turn around. A year ago, I’d have had a panic attack being tucked inside this stuffy space—it would have reminded me of drowning—but after my time spent training at Keystone, ducts have become my second home.

Still holding the string, I shimmy backward over the grate and the opening I just climbed through so I’m looking down into the stall. I tug on the string, sliding the grate toward me, then lower it back into place, closing the opening so it won’t reveal my whereabouts. After securing the panel by tying my end of the string around an exposed bolt, I grab my flashlight from my tool garter and click it on. It illuminates an endless metal path before me. As I recall from studying the Warhol’s blueprints with Tyson—I pretended to be fascinated by the building’s 1911 architecture and its many renovations—the air conditioning ducts in the ceilings all connect to a main air purification tube that runs parallel to the main stairwell. That tube is my destination.

For once my small stature comes in handy and I inch forward, belly crawling through the confined space. The air is thick and still. Sweat drips off my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I go as fast as I can. Following the duct to the right and circumventing the elevator shaft, I drag my body onward, gasping for fresh air. At least the second-floor exhibits are closed so nobody will hear me thumping around overhead.

I keep my focus on my destination, but I can’t shake the nagging sensation hanging over me that Garrett will get to the tape first. I peek at my wrist screen. 8:52. He has a seven-minute head start. My heart thumps even as my adrenaline surges, sharpening my vision. He beat me once in the Keystone Quest, but never again.

Finally, I reach the air purification tube. Squinting down over the edge of my duct, I shine my light into the black abyss below. The beam disappears into nothingness. If I fall, it will be to my death on the underground level. My stomach rolls and I shift onto my back, grateful for the metal cocoon surrounding me.

In the purification tube twenty feet above me, I make out slivers of dim light cast in diagonal lines from the vent in the third-floor stairwell. My flashlight reveals a small duct in front of the grate that looks big enough for me to crawl through. Somehow I’ve got to get up there.

I put away my flashlight and roll back onto my tummy, then slide out of the duct headfirst before I can overthink my plan. Reaching out until my sweaty palms can touch the far side of the tube, I hover over the bottomless hole. On autopilot, I contort my body until I can ease my legs out of my duct and wedge myself so I’m standing vertically in the tube. Thank goodness I thought to put traction tape on my shoes.

I take my grappling hook from my bag and shoot it up to the third-floor vent. It catches on the grates and after testing my weight, I climb up the paracord rope.

When I reach the duct that leads to the third-floor stairwell, I scramble inside so I’m lying on my belly facing the grate. The space is barely big enough to contain me and I curl my legs in as I put away my grappling hook, listening, my lungs heaving. All is silent and through the slats the stairwell appears empty. I check the time. 8:59.

Suddenly, footsteps patter downstairs, getting louder as they draw closer.

I gulp down air to stay quiet.

The 9:00 security sweep. The Warhol security systems are like clockwork, like one of the films projected on the sixth-floor screens: repetitive motion, repeated over and over, hour after hour.

Sneakers squeak across the polished cement floor before stopping in front of the grate that hides me. My breath trapped in my throat, I stare at the black shoes, praying they don’t have cameras on them that will send an image of my scared face to the guards’ AMPs. I lay frozen, my stomach doing flip-flops, waiting for the guard to kneel and peer through the slats. Instead, the sneakers keep skipping down the steps. A flick of a switch illuminates the staircase and the light filtering through grates glitters with dust particles. My shoulders slump and I exhale.

It won’t be long now.

The guard heads onto the third floor and seconds later, the lights click off, plunging me back into dusk. Elevator doors slide open with a ding. Footsteps tap across the threshold and are closed inside.

I’m alone. The knowledge courses through me and I’m certain of