Who was his first thought when danger struck?

“If you have somewhere else you need to be, then go,” I say, willing the jealousy out of my voice.

“Of course I don’t,” Owen answers too quickly. He locks his hands in front of his waist in an effort to stay still, a gesture I’ve come to know means he’s holding back.

“Let’s go find Emery,” he says, simultaneously looking over his shoulder, the opposite direction of the mansion.

Owen can have his secrets. I’ve got my own to worry about.

“This is my hometown,” I say, slipping away from his side and into the inky-black Market Square. “I don’t need an escort.” I’ve had my city’s street maps memorized since I was six.

The gun at my hip is the only escort I need.

A quarter of Dallas shines bright again. Primarily the outer ring of the city, populated with the homes and businesses of the privileged class—the ones rich enough to afford their own solar-powered battery backup systems. That stored energy will only last a day at most, however. And gas generators were outlawed decades ago due to environmental conservation and shortages of the natural resource. But I’d wager Black Market models will be put to use tonight. Still, that’s only a temporary fix.

All Dallas citizens—high ranking and low—are tied to the Texas Interconnection power grid. Every class depends on it for modern life. If we don’t get the electrical grid running again, and fast, the repercussions will be catastrophic. No lights, AC, TXRAIL transportation, refrigeration of food, or means to charge communication and medical devices are just the hellish beginning.

“The governor’s Guard is coming!” a wild shout rings out from somewhere in the crowd of citizens gathered in front of the mansion.

Huge solar-powered spotlights flood the front lawn, illuminating the rising alarm on the people’s faces. They’re kept back by a wall of armed Common soldiers, a tight yellow-tinted line that has replaced Roth’s twenty-foot see-through wall that was torn down mere weeks ago.

“If the blackout was done by Roth, his soldiers would be here by now,” I shout, trying to calm my fellow citizens’ fears. “It’s just the heat wave!”

“Return to your homes!” a bullhorn cuts over my assurances. “Shelter in place for your own safety!”

Then a thundering whup-whup-whup causes everyone’s heads to snap to the sky, squinting to catch sight of an incoming helicopter.

Emery’s leaving the mansion.

Suddenly in my own panic—I must get to the rebellion leader before she takes off—I attempt to fight my way through the wall of soldiers, to no avail. I’m shoved back roughly into the crowd.

Cursing, I throw down the hood of my lightweight jacket, exposing my disheveled telltale red hair, and push my face up toward one of the Guards. “I’m Ava Goodwin, let me through.”

It comes out as a command, and the woman carries out my orders immediately, stepping aside for me to shoulder through.

Right as the chopper lands on the mansion’s scarred front lawn ruined by thousands of storming feet, Emery dashes out the double-paneled French patio doors, surrounded by Guards carrying solar lanterns to light her way. Since she officially took on the mantle as the Common’s leader, Emery’s entire look has softened; all her rough edges that I had come to admire have smoothed out. She’s now a more polished, camera-ready version of the woman I met at the rebellion’s headquarters in Calgary over two months ago.

I sprint straight for Emery, catching eyes with the soldier that flanks her escort. The young Guard who was standing sentry earlier tonight at the entrance to the First Family’s wing.

By the way he glares at me, I know he must’ve taken some heat for my actions. I quickly scan the Governor’s Quarters to find it just as it should be: a ruined shell while the rest of the mansion remains unharmed. Good—the citizens need to see some justice done, even if we can’t find the man himself.

Then I hear my sister’s voice, and immediately a wave of calm washes through my panic.

“We won’t be left behind,” Mira argues fiercely. She walks close by Emery’s side, eyebrows knitted together like two blood-red crescent moons. I smile, knowing the “we” means me and her.

“Where are we going?” I shout, crouching underneath the helicopter’s blades to face the troop. Mira doesn’t bat an eye at my sudden presence.

“The entire state has lost power—not just Dallas,” Mira updates me. “And the Eastern Interconnection grid refuses to send power to Texas.”

Forty-eight million people without electricity in the middle of this record-breaking summer heat. I can barely wrap my head around it. This statewide blackout has the potential to be the most catastrophic event in Texas history if we don’t find a solution, fast.

“The superstation’s controlled by the Loyalists, and New York’s Governor Cole had the gall to say Texas is on its own, just like our state always intended to be,” Mira seethes, pushing her blonde-tipped bangs out of her eyes.

Texas is one of the most powerful states in the country, not just because of its might, but because it literally has its own power. An entire power grid owned and operated outside of federal authority. But we’ve only shared that valuable capital three times in our state’s history, and that was over a century ago.

It’s no surprise the other states remain bitter. Texas repeatedly turned a deaf ear to their calls for help, and now that we’re the ones crying out in need, they’re returning the favor.

An eye for an eye will make for a blind world, Rayla told the country. But still no one’s listening.

“What about the Tres Amigas station?” I say, guessing Emery’s intended solution for the blackout. “New Mexico’s not far; is that where you’re going? To negotiate for the Western Interconnection to link their grid to ours?”

Or to force the link ourselves if they refuse.

“Yes,” Emery shouts above the whirring rotor blades. “But I am undertaking the mission alone.” She stops between me and the open helicopter door, wearing a formal deep-mulberry suit tailored to perfection, her hair tamed into a smooth bob. I miss her signature wild, Einstein-like coils and bold yellow coat.

Despite her own lack of sleep—the woman has been on her feet nonstop, making endless urgent decisions and continuously strategizing—Emery exudes raw energy.

Rayla taught her well—Emery’s done the miraculous and led the shadowy underground rebellion from obscurity into a national movement that has captured one of the most important cities in the United States. It takes every available ounce of time and vigor Emery has and then some. It’s like she has a deeper well to pull from than everyone else. I myself think it should be her running for president, not Senator Gordon, but I know she’ll say her place is here with us, the Common.

Emery holds up her hand, stopping me before I can argue. “Governor Roth might have abandoned his post, but the Common is not recognized as the official government of Texas. Our leverage with Tres Amigas is precarious, and we cannot risk any stunts like the one you pulled tonight, Ava.”

My cheeks burn hot when Mira exclaims, “That was you?”

“It wasn’t a stunt,” I defend myself, unfaltering even under the disappointed glare of my mentor. “I took necessary action.”