He smiled.  She didn’t believe she’d said anything humorous.  “Nobody belongs here,” he chuckled, “but you get used to it.  Even the cameras. . .”  He trailed off, gesturing widely toward a video camera on the wall.    “I’m from London,” she clarified.    This wasn’t working; that comment only increased his curiosity. “Really?” Interest colored his voice.  “What is it like over there?”    She took in the entire Centre with a smooth motion of her hand.  “It’s got walls, windows, cameras, locks, a SimLab—”    “Optimized nutritional supplement?” he interrupted jokingly.    “It’s like here.  Only, it’s in London.”    “Why do you like London better than Blue Cove?” he persisted.  “There’s got to be a difference.”    “More Brits,” she said shortly.  “And fewer loonies.”    He leaned close to her, as if to offer her a secret.  “My name’s Jarod,” he murmured.  “Do you know Morse code?”    He had showed her to the small library reserved for the Pretender Project.  Most of the books were the same references, picture books, and carefully screened novels she’d memorized in London.  There was a real treat, a Rand McNally’s World Atlas, but any pages pertaining to any of the locales where there was a Centre satellite were marked out or removed.  The closest she could get to seeing a road map of London or Blue Cove were large, political maps of Great Britain and Delaware.    Later, he showed her how to re-wire the intercom system in her room so they could use Morse code to talk.  He showed her all his tricks, from how to make it onto the roof during Free Hour, to how to get around the security alarms in the ventilation ducts, to the topical anesthetic he’d developed by playing tricks with floor mold and fermenting nutritional supplement.  It smelled terrible, but she had to agree that it numbed effectively.  It even had potential as a sedative, with a tweaking of the formula.    They set up and learned to interpret a shorthand Morse which threw the Centre from some of their private conversations.  They shared ideas at a phenomenal rate; for the first time, someone could keep pace with her.  It was exhilarating.  Before she had met someone almost like her, she hadn’t known how alone she was.  Even her simulations improved, as Jarod’s practical intellect and incisive observations systemically eliminated errors from her work.    He had wanted to know every small detail of her life in London.  It wasn’t very different; divergent schedules, a slightly different ONS formula, a different security system.  Ana had been quite surprised to learn how much Jarod had contributed to the Centre headquarters security system himself.  Not that he was interested in making an escape attempt, but it fascinated her how he offhandedly described the keypad system he had designed which would even defeat Jarod.    And the parts of it which would never defeat him.    She ran into somebody else, hard, and was jolted out of her reverie.  A man scrambled to catch his glasses, and did, expertly, before they fell to the ground.  He settled them back on his face and took a couple of steps away.    Her ribs and shins stung.  They’d probably bruise.  “I’m. . .” she started, “I’m sorry.”    “Oh, it’s all right,” the man chirruped, and he smiled.  “Two people, out in the wee hours. . who would have thought?  Though I must say, you do look a fright, miss.”    He was about her age, she guessed, though he had a clean-cut look and unhindered smiled that made her wonder if he was younger.  His hair was chopped short, and honey blonde, and his wire-rimmed glasses and worn, brown leather coat made him look like a scientist or a scholar.  For a moment, she wondered if he worked for the Centre. . .but he wasn’t physically strong enough to be a sweeper, and the Centre kept its techies close to home.    So.  Her first outside-world person.  She put on a good act of looking down at her ragged clothing—it was damp with the night’s rain, and covered in the smudges and dirt from the streets of London—smiling, and blushing.  “I suppose I do,” she said cheerily.    “My name is Christopher Patterson,” he said, extending a hand into the air in front of him.    She stared at it.  What was this?  Something. . .she searched through her head for some little piece of data that would help her here.  The handshake, first established when two countries made a treaty, to ensure that neither leader held a weapon; now used as a standard greeting.  She reached up and clasped his open palm, awkwardly.    “Listen,” he murmured, grinning.  “I feel really bad about this.  Maybe I could get you something to eat?  There’s a bakery around the corner.  Its, ah, it’s warm.”    Food, and a promise to get out of the cool morning breeze.  She had to remind herself to be cautious.  She was out of her depth here; she’d never seen a city before and didn’t quite know what to do with it.  An ally, even for a short time, could be important.  He could also betray her.  It was silliness, or paranoia—logically, everyone in the world could not be associated with the Centre, and she had run into this man by chance in a huge city.  But there were times when paranoia could save her little Pretender tail.    “That would be nice,” she agreed, finally, but she decided to leave this man as soon as possible.    “All right.  This way.”    It was a short walk, and while they trotted toward the bakery on the corner, she got used to her new self.  She was Ana Brown, on the run, not from the Centre, but from an abusive boyfriend.  She had solved a crime like that once, in a simulation, so she already knew the feelings, the trials.  It was good to give voice to her fear of capture, and she relaxed into the role, painting a picture using the medium she was most familiar with:  emotions.    Christopher—he insisted on her calling him by his first name—was sympathetic, even horrified by her carefully made-up stories of the crazy boyfriend.  She was only a few hours away from the Centre, and she had been lucky enough to find a caring friend; it made her feel more confident in her escape.    The bakery was small and cozy, and Christopher knew the baker by name.  He asked her what kind of doughnut she wanted.    Doughnut?  She stared at the thick, circular bread.  It had a hole in the middle.  It was, indeed, made of dough, but it was certainly not a nut.  Except, perhaps, for that honey-walnut one on the end.  Interesting.  She grinned.  The outside world would certainly be a new experience.  “You pick for me, Christopher.”    He nodded.  “Um, I’ll have the honey glaze.  And the lady will have chocolate.”    “Coming right up.”    “And two hot teas.”    She wondered, what did they do with the dough they took from the middle?  Getting rid of it would be a waste.  They probably made it into more doughnuts.