My effort plotting out a route between Goodneighbor and the Commons had turned out to be a waste of time. Someone had gone through the effort of painting over the old Freedom Trail, leading us right to the trailhead itself. As the tourguide Protectron droned on about local history, I studied the hand-painted sign propped up against the fountain.

Had it, or the paint on the road, been here when I'd gone down into Park Street Station? Would I have noticed if it had? I had an awful habit of being oblivious to what was right in front of me, especially when I had other things on my mind. Selling my cover story to Malone had seemed close to my last hope just over a week ago, and I just couldn't summon a memory of what the park had looked like then.

"Neither of them were here when I went down to visit Skinny, I can tell you that much," Nick said when I asked him about it. He knelt to scratch a finger against the paint. It was completely dry, and it chipped up readily. "So we're looking at the paint being laid down anywhere from three weeks ago to maybe the day before yesterday."

Painting a guideline through the city seemed like a huge risk to take for an organization as secretive as the Railroad. The timing was suspiciously close, but it ruled out the possibility that it'd been done specifically for my sake. Something had made them both desperate enough to roll out the red carpet for anyone who happened to find it and to send me an invitation. I still didn't know how I'd been found out in Goodneighbor.

"You said they usually go for the subtle route," I said, turning the thought over in my head. "This seems pretty far from a wink and a nod. Wouldn't using the Freedom Trail be a little obvious to anyone with an ax to grind against them? It's a little bit on the nose."

"For you, maybe it seems obvious," he said, turning his attention to the round plaque embedded in the sidewalk. It bore the same red paint as the street. "But history education isn't what it used to be before the war, no matter how hard Zwicky tries. There aren't a hell of a lot of folks left who'd remember what the original Freedom Trail was about, other than you and me and a few ghouls."

But he knew. Had the Institute loaded him up with historical reference data when they'd made him? That might explain knowing about the old Freedom Trail in the first place, but it wouldn't explain how he'd known enough about pre-war education to offer up an opinion on how standards had fallen. Holofilms could explain fashion, sure, and maybe even the way he spoke. But they didn't even begin explain the things I didn't know about him, and my imagination failed to supply any answer that fit better.

The Freedom Trail had once been one of Boston's more famous tourist attractions, leading through the oldest parts of the city and highlighting a selection of historic sites. I hadn't grown up in the metro area itself, but we'd been close enough that I'd been been subjected to more than one field trip to walk its length in my school years. And a weak grasp of direction didn't mean there was anything wrong with my memory. The end of the trail should have been the Bunker Hill monument.

"I don't like it." I crossed my arms and stared at the lantern on the doorstep of the Old North Church. The white painted symbol just above it made it clear that we were supposed to enter. "The sign at the Commons said to go to journey's end. But the Old North Church isn't the end of the Freedom Trail. So why set up here? It doesn't make sense."

Nick gave me a sidelong look. "It's not like they could just take over Bunker Hill. The caravans have been using that place for years, and as far as I know the Railroad co-opting the Freedom Trail is a new development. You said that your visitor the other night told you things have been bad for them lately. This might not exactly be their first choice of locale.."

It was reasonable enough when he said it, but something about the setup still felt fishy to me. "If it's all the same to you, I'm going to scout this place out a little before I make up my mind." He seemed a little frustrated, but followed along as I began to circle the building.

Maybe Nick was right. But I couldn't ignore the lurking sense that something about this wasn't right, that there was something I wasn't seeing. Even if the Railroad itself was legitimate, it would be trivial for the Institute to set up a sting operation. Make a nice, clear path for synths and sympathetic humans alike to follow, let the typical post-war hazards of downtown take care of the unlucky ones, and lure the survivors into a secure trap. The escapees could be hauled back to the Institute without fuss, and the humans trying to join the Railroad's ranks could be simply eliminated. Cold and efficient – the way I expected them to operate.

I didn't trust the man who'd put me onto this path, but my gut told me that he wasn't an Institute operative. It had been the only claim of his that I was willing to take at face value. So assuming for a moment that he really was with the Railroad, and they really did route potential recruits along the Freedom Trail to the church – why? What had made them so desperate within the past few weeks?

I didn't find anything out of place with the exterior of the building itself or with any of the ones surrounding it. But despite that, I couldn't convince myself to go inside without at least trying to learn more. It took some scrambling and some scrapes, but I found a way up to the rooftop of an adjacent building. From there, I could see a single lantern in the steeple.

"One if by land, huh," Nick mused, gazing at it. "I guess that means they know we're here. What do you think we're going to accomplish sitting up here that we couldn't by just knocking on the door?"

"I don't know," I admitted, settling into a corner where I had a good view of both the steeple and the doorstep. We were starting to lose the light of the afternoon, and the shadows were getting deep. "Am I just being paranoid, Nick?"

He took a seat at my side, set his hat beside himself, and leaned his head against the wall. "That's one word for it, maybe. And maybe you're being sensibly cautious. This is your case, and you're the only one that can make the final call. Me? I'd probably just go in and let what happens, happen. But with how we met… you already know that doesn't always work out for me."

I couldn't help laughing, just a little. "Oh, I don't know. You got a new partner out of that deal, didn't you?"

He smiled at me. "I did, at that. Jury's still out on how much of a detective she'll turn out to be, but it sure beats traveling alone."

We sat there together watching the church as the sun set and the stars came out. A flock of birds circled overhead of us for a while before moving on and a passing raider gang blundered into a nest of ferals, but other than that there was nothing much to see.

I woke with a start and sat bolt upright. When had I fallen asleep? Nick's arm, which had apparently been around my shoulders, slipped away and I realized that I was warmer than I would have been if I'd slept on the roof's surface. Why had he allowed me to sleep leaned up against him like that?

"Shit," I muttered, scrambling away to give him space. There were some things more important than my questions. "I'm sorry. I don't even know when I dropped off. I didn't mean to –"

"It's fine," he said, cutting me off firmly. "I can go all night without any shut-eye, but you need your rest and you sure didn't get enough the night before last. I kept watch for you, but I don't have much to report. It was a quiet night."

Even if it'd been unintentional, I'd pushed up against a very clear boundary he'd drawn – no touching. The way he'd flinched away before was seared into my memory. "You didn't have to make yourself uncomfortable for my sake, Nick. I wouldn't have minded using my bag as a pillow. I've done it often enough."

He turned his face away, but from the line of his cheeks it almost looked like he was smiling. "I said it was fine, didn't I? Just forget about it. You make your mind up about whether or not we're going in?"

I didn't understand.

Had I just looked too pathetic and tired for him to have the heart to disturb? But he wouldn't have had to put an arm around me if that was the case – and it wouldn't have been a cause to smile. There was clearly something I'd misunderstood, but even I could take the hint that he wanted to change the subject.

Standing to stretch, I made my way over to the edge of the rooftop. Despite the complaints of my neck, I had to admit that I'd slept well. Something about the warmth, maybe, or the almost imperceptible sound of his inner machinery.

"I still don't know what I think about all this," I admitted, pushing those thoughts away. "I thought I'd see something to make my mind up, or that I'd realize something that'd make it all click into place. That didn't happen. We're exactly where we were yesterday."

"You'd have to be awfully lucky for a one-night stakeout to yield anything useful," Nick said, amused. "Especially with how obvious you were about casing the joint. Somehow, I don't get the feeling that subtlety is your middle name."

Maybe it'd have been better if I'd tried sneaking up on the place. But the steeple was higher than most of the other buildings around. If they'd had someone posted up there, there was little chance I'd have been able to get close unnoticed.

Even now, I still didn't feel comfortable with the idea of entering the church. But either I could choose to trust the information I had and meet with them on their terms, or I could walk away. There wasn't any middle ground.

"Well," I said, after we'd climbed down off of the rooftop. "If it is an Institute trap, at least it would mean getting a little closer to the bastards. I… I won't blame you if you'd rather sit this one out and wait for me. I can't imagine you're eager for a reunion."

"What, and leave my partner out to dry? I don't even have you broken in yet," he teased, earning something like a laugh from me. There was a way he had a way of lifting my mood just when I needed it. "For the record, I think you're being a little too paranoid about this thing. But even if it turns out you're right… well, you said it yourself. We're in this thing together, and I'm not going to let you face it alone."

The building, like most of Boston's less active corners, was home to a number of feral ghouls.

We had tried to enter quietly, but the creaking floorboards woke them from their rest and they rushed at us from the pews, from behind the collapsed pipe organ, and from the upper gallery. Although we were outnumbered, Nick and I didn't have much trouble clearing them out – I blasted at their legs with my shotgun, and he finished them off once they were reduced to crawling.

Some welcome. If this was meant to be a trap, whoever had set it up didn't seem to think much of us. And if it hadn't been for the graffiti lanterns here and there around the hall, I would have guessed that the place hadn't seen any activity other than that of the ghouls since the war.

It wasn't until we reached the steeple that we saw any sign of recent activity. We had seen the lantern from across the street, but I'd only been guessing about the sniper rifle.

I picked it up. It was unusually well-maintained by wasteland standards, and when I lined up the scope I noticed that it wasn't even clouded or cracked.

Someone took care of their toys, and we'd been within their sights the entire night.

They'd seen us watching them. What had they thought about us? The fact that they hadn't eliminated us there said something, but I wasn't sure what. And why had they left the rifle up here? Surely they'd expect us to explore the building if we survived the ferals. Was it some kind of message? I shook my head and set it down.

Speculating like this wouldn't get me anywhere. We had searched the entire building, and all that was left to do was to head into the basement.

I remembered from a long-past visit that it served as a crypt, and so it was little surprise that it was just as full of ghouls as the church above had been – for some reason I didn't understand ferals seemed to congregate where the dead had been laid to rest. My first time taking a shortcut through a graveyard had been an education.

The narrow corridor made it impossible for us to move forward side by side or use the same strategy we had upstairs, and the number of alcoves to the sides meant that we were ambushed more than once passing through.

"If the Railroad is really using this place, why didn't they clear it out when they moved in?" I asked. "I can't imagine they all just sneak by every time they have to run out for supplies, or to re-light the lanterns, or man the sniper nest in the steeple."

"Well," Nick started, before pausing to shoot a feral I hadn't noticed approaching. "You have to admit, a security force that doesn't need to be fed and that can't be bribed could be considered a bonus… if you have another way to get in and out. But this part of Boston's always been lousy with old tunnels. If you didn't mind a little excavation, you could probably find a viable route anywhere you needed to get to."

If that was the case, it meant that the Railroad was content to run their recruits through a potentially fatal gauntlet just to meet them. And how did the synth escapees get to them, anyway? Did they have to follow the same route, alone and possibly unarmed? How many had died in the attempt?

"Convenient or not, it seems strange." The Railroad had been operating out of this location for a maximum of three weeks. "Are we the first ones to try and enter through the front door? Or do they have a way of luring more ferals in whenever the last batch get taken out by the recruits that come through?"

"I guess if you had a Mr. Handy wave a bit of rotten meat at them it wouldn't be impossible to lead them anywhere you like," he allowed. "But ferals living outside always look more ragged than those that've been locked up since they turned, and all the ones we've seen in here seem unusually well turned out. Like they heard the sirens and took the time to put on their Sunday best before heading here and waiting for the end. I think we're the first ones to come through this way."

Or at the very least, we were the first to get this far. The thought left me chilly.

The catacombs ended abruptly at a wall with a circular bronze plaque embedded in it. It was identical to those that had marked out the trail, all except for the wires that disappeared into the brickwork – and it was missing the codes that had been painted onto the ones on the streets above. It was obviously some kind of input mechanism, which suggested that we'd find something interesting on the other side.

Nick pressed his ear to the wall for a moment and then pulled away with a shrug. "I can't tell what's back there. Could be a draft; could be whispering. My hearing might be a bit better than yours, but there are limits."

I touched the plaque and found that it was set into a groove. It rotated when I tried it, and I suddenly understood what the meaning of the painted code had been. Letter by letter, I entered the password. When I was done, something distant began a mechanical clicking before a whole section of brickwork slid away.

There was a candle on the ground a few feet beyond, but the shadows swallowed up its light – I couldn't see anything else ahead. Whether we were about to meet the Railroad or the Institute, I'd committed the both of us when I'd chosen to enter the church. I glanced sideways at Nick and he nodded at me. We walked into the darkness together.