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lap.
    “You know,” Mr. Langly said, “I think school’s gonna be awesome this year. I think school’s gonna be its best yet. You’ve got that government class ninth period—I know you’re gonna love learning about all that stuff, and you’ve got gym and art and technology and—”
    “Dad,” Logan said, and his dad stopped abruptly. “I’m not worried about classes.” The two were quiet for a minute. Mr. Langly wondered if he should take the opportunity to ask what Logan was worried about, and Logan wondered if he should say. But Dad pretty much knew the answer.
    “The Mark, right?”
    Logan stiffened at the sound of the word. Finally he said, “We’re all turning thirteen this year. Everyone’s getting it. It’s just a matter of time.”
    Logan knew that if he was going to talk about this with anyone, it had to be Dad.
    You did not talk about the Mark with Mom.
    “Look,” Mr. Langly said. “This year . . . is going to be . . . it’s going to be great.” But he frowned and sat still for several breaths, and Logan believed him less with each one.
    . . . three.
    . . . four.
    . . . five.
    “I remember when I got the Mark,” Mr. Langly said, finally. “Just after you were born, when the program began. They give you a spoonful of nanosleep, so it doesn’t hurt. You just go in, answer some questions . . . sit back, and before you know it, you’re Marked and on your way. It’s nothing. Honestly.
    “And then it’s great! It’s like playing your first hover-dodge game, or getting your first tablet, or going off to school, or . . . I mean, you’re free ! With the Mark, you’re free. You can get a job, you can shop for things . . . if you want more juice, you can just go out and get a carton yourself. You won’t even have to wait for Mom or me to come home—”
    Logan rolled over and pulled the covers away from his head to look his father in the eyes. “ Juice ?”
    “Or something.” His dad smiled. “Why? What would you get?”
    Logan refused to think about it, refused to allow himself even the slightest excitement over the Mark, so he and his dad had a little unspoken staring contest instead. They did this from time to time, just reach a moment of disagreement when Logan would stare, and Mr. Langly was a good sport, so he’d always stare back.
    “You can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” Logan said. “You can’t pretend it didn’t kill her.”
    And Logan’s dad sighed.
    That pretty much ended the staring contest that night.
    2
    In all of it, Logan couldn’t remember his dad opening the window, couldn’t remember the draft coming in and animating the blinds’ soft rat-a-tat against the pane, as they did so ominously now.
    So who had done it? Who had touched the window, and when? There had to be a reasonable explanation, but Logan couldn’t think of one.
    Why could he never think of one?
    For years, it had been this way, off and on. He’d walk home from school on the familiar sidewalks of his town, looking over his shoulder the whole way. He’d finish homework on his lap with his back to a wall, his desk beside him empty and gathering dust, so as always to keep an eye on the room he was in. He’d brush his teeth at night transfixed by the door behind him in the mirror, his eyes trained on the knob that at any time could betray him, could turn or jump or jiggle. A quiet moment was one spent listening for footsteps, for leaves rustling in the fall or snow crunching in the winter. Time alone was time spent watching the movement in the shadows.
    Being underage, Logan couldn’t see a doctor without a Marked guardian, so at his moments of highest desperation, when his parents had had enough and didn’t know what else to do, his dad would take him—drag him—to the Center. Logan would sit in the examination room, prodded and scared, while Mr. Langly said to the doctor things like “We don’t know what’s wrong with him . . .” and “Ever since his sister . . .” just exactly as if Logan wasn’t there, wasn’t sitting right there and crying silently as the doctor shone lights at him and shook his head coolly and clicked his tongue, saying words like traumatized , paranoid , delusional .
    Over time, Logan learned to carry his fear. He learned to swallow it, deny it, live with it. His accounts of faces in windows and footprints on floors, of sounds at night and doors opening and closing on their own, of being followed or tracked or who-knows-what-else, had all been