“It’s okay, Em, I know you’re not crazy. Sometimes these things are out of our control. Let’s get you checked since we’re here anyway?”

Through the hospital room window, Grandma stirred. I rubbed my eyes, sure a nap for myself was in order. “She’s awake. I should be in there.” I stood. “Let me know if you decide to see a doctor before you go, and I’ll come with you.” I opened the door, but I leaned back to say one last thing. “And I think the café is a great idea. Let’s do it.”

I left Emily in the hallway chairs with her hands dropped to her lap, staring straight ahead.

In the room, I dragged Quinn’s chair to my grandmother’s bedside as a nurse came in and added a sheet to the clear pocket on the wall.

“Any chance you could keep an eye on my friend? I think she might not be sleeping well, and I read that poor sleep can result in irrational decisions, or even obsessive tendencies if she’s not careful,” I said to the nurse, nodding toward Emily through the window. But when I looked to where Emily had been sitting, I realized she’d left.

I sighed and patted my pockets for my phone so I could call Kaley, hoping she’d be up to checking on Emily whenever she got back from…

My hand slowed at my pocket, and I blinked.

I couldn’t remember where Kaley went.

A WEEK OR THREE LATER…

EPILOGUE

A WEEK OR THREE LATER…

A branch of cloud covered the evening skies of the Trite world; cloudy fingers reaching o’er the city of Waterloo like the hand of a soggy, grayish sea ghost.

Zane Cohen eyed it as he stood on the sidewalk’s snow-dusted edge, anticipating an oncoming storm. He slid his hands into his pockets—rough Trite pockets, inside the scratchy Trite coat. A common toque also covered his Rime ears, which drooped off the top like a lazy, ugly thing, refusing to hold a pointed shape as any good hat or hood should.

He leaned to look down at his bland boots with plain laces and rubber soles. There was also no curl in them, whatsoever.

A large, Trite vessel rolled to a stop on the road before him, and Zane nearly jumped at the sharp hiss of its brakes as it arrived.

“Ragnashuck,” he muttered to himself, glancing both ways to ensure no one had seen his almost-jump. In doing so, he spotted a peculiar fellow waiting for the vessel’s door to slide open. The fellow had a rather familiar arrogance to his tall, slender stance.

Zane turned, bright eyes narrowing on the hood which did not cover the folk’s face well enough. The Patrolman’s fingers flew over his shoulder to feel for his weapon but found only air. He balled his fists instead.