CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE TOBIAS“LOOK WHO IT is,” Peter says as I walk into the dormitory. “The traitor.”
There are maps spread across his cot and the one next to his. They are white and pale blue and dull green, and they draw me to them by some strange magnetism. On each one Peter has drawn a wobbly circle—around our city, around Chicago. He’s marking the limits of where he’s been.
I watch that circle shrink into each map, until it’s just a bright red dot, like a drop of blood.
And then I back away, afraid of what it means that I am so small.
“If you think you’re standing on some kind of moral high ground, you’re wrong,” I say to Peter. “Why all the maps?”
“I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it, the size of the world,” he says. “Some of the Bureau people have been helping me lear
