He tipped his head toward the window and watched the city slide past. He liked that better: sitting on a hard plastic seat next to someone’s grandmother holding that weeks’ groceries in her lap, the kid in the back blasting music from his phone, the man in a secondhand suit on his way to a job interview. Level IV covered taxi fare, but Noam took the bus. Just another way to prove Noam wasn’t one of those government soldiers, not really, that his blood still belonged to the west side. He might not have his dad to support anymore, but going to work felt more important than ever. Noam was dying to go straight to Brennan and hand over the data and watch the look on Brennan’s face transform from disgust to delight. If anything, Larry the owner was desperate for staff since half his people died in fever, and though he must’ve known Noam survived the virus-that Noam was a witching now and working for the government if he was still in Durham-he didn’t ask too many questions. Noam’d managed to keep his job at the convenience store, which had been spared the firebomb post-outbreak by a scant four hundred yards and opened back up again last week. He stepped out into the snowy December streets with treason burning a hole in his pocket and Lehrer just let him. No Ministry of Defense soldiers reached for him as he left the government compound Sunday morning and dragged him back behind bars.
But no men in anti-witching armor showed up at midnight to demand Noam hand over his flopcell. Noam kept expecting Lehrer to change his mind.
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