“Really,” Mr. Hendricks said. “Is your memory that short? What about Jason?”

Jason had been a Population Police spy who’d infiltrated the school. Just hearing his name could still send a shiver of fear through Luke’s body, but he held it back, tried not to let Mr. Hendricks see.

“Jason’s gone now,” Luke said. He was proud of the way he kept his voice level and calm. “And you said yourself, you’re screening new applicants better, you’re not going to let that happen again. And we’re all so… comfortable here now. We’re talking to one another about being illegal, about having fake I.D.’s. We’re all friends.”

Mr. Hendricks rolled over to the window and stared out at a cascade of forsythia that hid his house from the lane.

“I worry that you’ve all become too comfortable. That we’re not preparing you for…” He let his voice trail off. Then he looked back at Luke. “For reality. What if this Smits is another Jason?”

The question hung in the air. To escape Mr. Hendricks’s gaze, Luke glanced down at the photo of Smits. He saw cold gray eyes, a patrician nose, light hair, a sneer. Smits Grant was probably only eleven or twelve years old, but he might as well have been a miniature adult The look he had given the camera — and now seemed to be giving Luke— made Luke feel like a poor, dumb country kid again. Never mind that Luke himself was wearing leather shoes, tailored pants, and a fancy shirt and tie. He felt barefoot, snotty-nosed, and ignorant beyond words, compared with the photo of Smits.

“Can’t you tell him not to come?” Luke asked Mr.Hendricks. “Say he’s not allowed at your school? If you’re worried, I mean.”

“He’s Smithfield Grant,” Mr. Hendricks said. “His father — your father — is one of the most powerful men in the country. I’d have a better chance of stopping the wind than stopping a Grant from doing what he wants.”