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see her dad smile sadly. “That’s up to your mom, Erin.”
    “Then we’re not going back, are we?”
    Mr. Arbitor sighed. “Someone’s making a mess in Spokie, Erin. And the Department of Marked Emergencies thinks I’m the best man to clean it up. If I can do that quickly, we’ll go home. If not . . . well, listen . . . I really think you’re gonna like it here.”
    “What’s the mess?” Erin asked. “Just tell me already. Give me something to believe in.”
    Mr. Arbitor pointed to his Mark over the connection and winked.
    “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Erin said. She was tired of her father’s deflections, and for the first time, she had a reason to care.
    “Government work,” Mr. Arbitor said. And he ended the call.
    Erin stared at the box under her hands. “DOME,” it read across the top. “CONFIDENTIAL.” Erin knew it was not hers to open. She knew it was strictly her father’s, his documents from the Department, which at any other time would be locked away in so remote a corner that Erin wouldn’t even think to look. And yet, in the haste and chaos of the move, here they were, right in front of her, separated from Erin by only a thin layer of cardboard and some tape.
    Under ordinary circumstances, Erin wouldn’t have dreamed of opening the box. Under ordinary circumstances, she couldn’t have imagined anything inside being of any interest. But Erin was angry, and lonely, and far from home. She wanted, she deserved , to know why. So Erin peeled the tape from the lid.
    It took her several minutes to remove the strip without tearing the cardboard underneath. She knew there could not be a trace of what she had done.
    Her heart pounded. In all his years with the Department, Mr. Arbitor hadn’t once brought home a story, hadn’t once shared a single interesting thing he’d done that day. What could anything inside this box possibly reveal? She hadn’t a clue.
    And in fact, even if she had, it would not have prepared her for what she found.

THREE

FIRST DAY, NEW FACE
    1
    T HE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL AT SPOKIE MIDDLE was always pandemonium. Logan stood in the Freshwater Wing and noticed how the white-water rapids in the windows bore such close resemblance to the students crashing down the hall.
    “I forgot how to read!” someone boasted as he walked by with a circle of friends.
    “I can’t hold a stylus anymore!” shouted another, waving one around as if he’d never seen anything like it.
    The laughter and yelling of reunions in every direction were rough and unforgiving; Logan twisted and spun as the student body flowed violently past.
    Everywhere, people compared tans, new clothes, dropped voices, Marks . . . each worn like a badge of honor. Logan decided to skip the parade and head straight for class.
    “Hey, Logan, where you runnin’ off to?” said a voice somewhere behind him. It was Dane Harold, Logan’s best friend and life preserver in the turbulent social waters of Spokie Middle Development.
    “Dane!” Logan said. “How ya been?!”
    It had been weeks since the two had seen each other, since Dane had spent most of the summer with relatives in downtown New Chicago.
    “I’m good, man, I’m good. Not looking forward to computer science, though. I hear we’re getting into compiler construction this year. I barely even remember how to quicksort.”
    “First period?” Logan asked.
    “Yeah, right now.”
    “Me too, man. That’s awesome!” So the two of them made their way to the Old City Wing.
    “Hey, it’s Tom,” Dane said, pointing the class president out across the hall. “Tom! You look awful! Didn’t anyone tell you we were just on summer break?” It was only friendly teasing, but Logan couldn’t help noticing Dane was right. Tom looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
    “I’m Pledging tomorrow,” Tom said. “Been prepping all weekend.”
    “Right on, man! Good luck!” Dane said. And he and Logan pushed onward down the hall. “I turn at the beginning of next month,” Dane told Logan. “Then I can finally start getting paid for my gigs. Stop relying on my stupid parents. First thing I’m gonna buy are some new wailing mitts.”
    Dane was a cyberpunk rocker by night, lead singer and mitt wailer of his band, the Boxing Gloves. Even now he wore reminders of this alter ego—pants with a few wires coming out of them and a shirt that changed color with the temperature but always remained some shade of black. The look was out of style, a