The woman handed me a crinkled piece of paper. She lifted a pistol up to my eye level and whispered, “We know where to find you.” Then she faded into the shadows behind a building.
Her threat ringing in my ears, I smoothed out the paper. It was a list of names, the first two crossed out so heavily I couldn’t read them. But the rest were printed neatly in crisp, capital letters:
Written under the names was “These people.”
These people? I wondered. That’s all? I squinted at the blank space beneath the words, and saw lots of dents. Staring at the filthy pavement of the side street, I spotted, where the woman had stood just minutes ago, a silver pen. I bent down and picked it up, twirling it between my fingers. It wasn’t a regular pen, though. On top was a lightbulb, hidden in the body of the pen. I pressed a tiny button an inch from the glass dome, and a violet beam shot out, like a flashlight. I angled the glow at the piece of paper. Slowly, letters started to appear, making words.
These people . . .