Nona waited. So did Noodle.
“They’ll be starting the broadcast. Soon,” said Hot Sauce.
Even if Nona had not been Nona, she felt that she would have been able to easily translate that stubborn set of Hot Sauce’s shoulders, the readiness in her hands. Her whole body was turning to face the street, like wanting was somehow magnetic.
Nona hedged, “But the Angel won’t know where we’ve gone.”
“Write a note. Give it to Noodle. He’s smart.”
Nona was thrilled with the idea of leaving a note on Noodle, and was sorry they hadn’t struck on the idea before—to leave messages for the Angel or for anyone else—but was deeply unhappy that the discovery had only been made in this particular situation.
“But I can’t write,” said Nona.
“I can,” said Hot Sauce. Then she amended, “Enough.”
“But Hot Sauce, the Angel won’t trust us after this…”
“The asset doesn’t have to trust you,” said Hot Sauce, sounding all of a sudden very grown-up and very professional and very much like Pyrrha. Nona was so cowed that she didn’t even ask what part of you the asset was. Hot Sauce followed this up with, “I’ll go alone. If you don’t want to.”
“I’m a Teacher’s Aide. I’m meant to look after you.”
“Then look after me. Unless you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything,” lied Nona, but added urgently, “You can’t let me get hurt.”
Hot Sauce just shrugged expressively at that, like, I wasn’t going to, and Nona wished she could have made Hot Sauce understand somehow. But it was all happening so quickly. She said helplessly, “Even like a sunburn or if there’s a dust storm,” but Hot Sauce was ignoring her to rummage through what had long ago used to be someone’s front desk, finding a bit of scrap paper, getting a pen and seeing if the ink had dried out. She began printing laboriously. It took her such a long time that Nona was hopeful the Angel would get curious about where they were and come down and rumble their plan, but it was not to be. Hot Sauce knelt down by the dog and tucked the note into his collar, unclipped the leash and hung it up in the foyer, wedged the paper in tight so that it wouldn’t fall out. Nona hoped devoutly that the Angel would check it.
“Noodle,” said Hot Sauce, in the voice of command, “go upstairs.”
Noodle looked at Hot Sauce in much the way that Nona wished she could look at Hot Sauce—a sort of Why aren’t you coming with me? Are you dim? expression—but when Hot Sauce repeated, “Go upstairs,” he wagged his tail a bit, then turned away and started mounting the stairs.
“Go,” said Hot Sauce.
Nona and Hot Sauce made for the doors. Hot Sauce held the locking apparatus down and Nona shoved through—they were heavy fire doors and they took some pushing, though Crown had breezed through them like they had been feathers—and Hot Sauce flew after her. The door went click—locking itself behind them—and Hot Sauce said, “Hood up. Go go go,”—and seized Nona’s hand—and like a loosed bullet, ricocheted off down the street.
It was all Nona could do to cling to her, her heart beating fast, regretting all of the decisions that had led her to that moment. Then she told herself sternly, Stop it! If she was going to do it, she thought, she might as well do it. She had some vague notion that when you committed to a thing you had to do it all the way. Who had said that to her? Who had taught her that? Once you’ve stepped in, said the voice in the back of her head, you’re in. This isn’t the Hokey Pokey.
She had remembered something—she had finally remembered something! Only she didn’t have anyone to tell.
Nona was saved from being seriously out of breath by the fact that a few streets down, they caught up with a crowd of people shuffling forward. There was no talking, just the noise of moving feet; a truck chugging along keeping pace with the pedestrians; a baby shushed in someone’s arms. They were all hooded and jacketed, and without hesitation Hot Sauce merged with the mass. It was incredible the way she moved. The moment she joined that crowd, her shoulders were flung back—she straightened up a whole inch—she swaggered with her hips. She aged fifteen years, no longer a child among that throng of people. Nona dropped her hand and tried to do the same, straightening her back, softening her hips, and Hot Sauce beneath her breath just said— “Keep it up.”
They glued themselves shoulder to shoulder in that slow queue. They were being streamed into the big eight-lane street in front of the civics building, where militia officers directed people from the backs of trucks or on their putt-putts, each one in a helmet, each one with a stick, most of them so badly frightened that Nona swore she could watch them sweat. They were turning some people away. The person with the baby was told to stay at the back of the crowd. The officer said in a low voice, “If they stampede, you’ll be hurt,” and the person with the baby said tonelessly, “Who cares? We might as well die.”