July 7, 2057 – 3:14 a.m.
Somewhere on I-65, Kentucky border
The convoy is three vehicles now: Jonah's church van in front, a stolen box truck full of sleeping kids in the middle, and a battered pickup bringing up the rear with the overflow.
Elijah drives the pickup alone. He told the others he needed quiet. Truth is he needed space from the questions in their eyes.
The radio is off. The only sound is wind through cracked windows and the occasional soft snore from the three kids curled under blankets in the bed. Amara insisted on riding with him; she's asleep against Mr. Raffi, pink beads tangled in her braids.
His phone buzzes on the passenger seat. Unknown number. He almost ignores it.
He answers.
"Thought you'd be harder to find, Pulse Baby."
Iron Patriot's voice—filtered through a modulator, but the smug is unmistakable.
Elijah's grip tightens on the wheel. "How'd you get this number?"
"Same way I get everything. Someone sold it." A pause. "Relax. This isn't a trace. Just a courtesy call."
Elijah checks the rear-view. The box truck's headlights stay steady behind him.
"Forty-five kids," Iron Patriot continues. "That's a lot of heat. You're burning bright, son. Bright things get put out."
Elijah says nothing.
"I'm offering you a way down. Bring them in quietly. Voluntary registration. Safe facilities. No cages. You get to walk as a hero consultant. The girl with the fire—Ruiz—she gets a full ride scholarship. The speedster gets new legs, top of the line. Even the illusion kid gets a second chance."
Elijah's shadows stir in the footwell, black tendrils licking the pedals.
"And if I say no?"
Iron Patriot chuckles. "Then I come south. And I don't come quiet."
The line goes dead.
Elijah stares at the dark highway stretching like a scar through sleeping fields.
He thinks about Marcus laughing too loud at a dice game.
About forty-five kids who might actually get to grow up.
About Maya's golden light pushing back nightmares.
He deletes the call log, then pulls off at the next exit.
The convoy follows without question.
In a empty rest stop lit by one flickering bulb, Elijah gathers them in a loose circle.
"Iron Patriot just offered us a deal," he says. No sugar. "Surrender the kids, we walk with perks. Refuse, he comes hunting."
Silence.
Aisha is first. "Perks from a man who livestreams executions? Pass."
Jonah adjusts his glasses. "Safe facilities is code for black sites."
Kenji looks at Kayden, who still hasn't spoken much since the highway. Kayden meets his eyes and nods once—small, but clear.
Maya steps forward, heat shimmering. "We didn't pull them out of cages to hand them back gift-wrapped."
Amara tugs Elijah's sleeve. "Mr. Raffi says no deal."
Elijah looks at each face—tired, scared, defiant.
He nods.
"Then we keep going south."
He pulls a road atlas from the glovebox, spreads it on the hood under the weak light.
"New route. Back roads only. No interstates. We hit the Ninth Ward in three days if we don't sleep."
Aisha grins for the first time in hours. "Road trip with America's most wanted. My abuela would be proud."
Jonah starts rerouting the encrypted GPS.
Kenji and Kayden load the last sleepy kids into the vehicles without a word.
Maya lingers beside Elijah.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
He looks south, where the horizon is already bruising with dawn.
"No," he says. "But we're still moving."
They pull out single file, headlights off, ghosts sliding through a country that just learned their names.
Behind them, the rest stop light finally dies.