Jo runs, she weaves in and out of crowds, knows which alleys and pedways are shortcuts and which are dead ends. The satchel the usual kind, thrown over her shoulder as if she were any other courier.
The satchel contains nothing of any consequence: some food, a generously dog-eared GovPsyInf pamphlet, a child’s toy, a data slip containing innocuous pop music. The parcel is not inside.
What she hurries to deliver this Sunday — every Sunday — is woven into the ink of her back piece: salvation itself, inscribed microscopically and masked with meaningless tribal patterns. No raid will ever find it.