Rokia
She thought she was ready. They’ve been planning ever since the card was read, trying to think of all the contingencies, Rokia saw her grandmother last night, late, and she’ll be with the girls now, at Sal’s, and they’ll leave on the train soon and disappear.
And still it sounds like the escort is a couple districts over when she calls out the name—Poppy, not Rokia, and Plutarch said that’s how it would go but she knows better than to trust him. And then—“Chester Phillips,” the escort trills, and Rokia can’t breathe.
“I volunteer,” the voice is uninflected, harsh.
Rokia can see again. Phillips is staring at Terence, his expression completely blank. Terence shrugs one shoulder, his face twists into a sardonic smile, and he steps forward, climbs the steps, and takes Poppy’s hand.