And now Patricia was rushing, even though there was no place to go. She ran past dark distorted storefronts and naked flames, looters and volunteer firefighters, past people dragging their possessions in the street and two men beating each other with their fists. Part of Patricia felt like she had died, after all. Another part, though, felt like she’d gotten a brand-new life.

Laurence was giving Patricia the silent treatment, and it was creeping her out. Maybe he was pissed, or feeling guilty about his friends killing her friends, or freaking out about the Unraveling. But he refused to talk, no matter how many times she looked over her shoulder at him and told him she was scared or they were screwed, or just to keep up. He just gave her a weird look and some hand gestures.

The birds, meanwhile, would not shut the hell up. They were chorusing, “Too late! Too late!” over and over again, from every cantilevered tree and every sunken roof. They followed, flying right over her and behind her, chirping. “Too late!”

“Shut up!” she shouted in bird language at them. “I know, I screwed everything up. You don’t have to keep rubbing my face in it.”

At the place where Mission and Valencia converge, Patricia seized Laurence by the shoulders. “Look, I know a lot of stuff has happened, most of it today, and you’re just dealing with it in your own fashion. But goddamn it, I need to hear your voice. Right now. I need you to tell me there’s still hope. Lie, I don’t care. Please! Why are you being like this?”

She saw the look of misery and annoyance on Laurence’s face, and then she realized.

“Oh. You didn’t.”

He nodded.

“You stupid dumbass. What were you thinking? Why would you do that?” She was shaking his whole torso, with all her strength.

He finally slipped out of her grasp, got his Caddy out, and typed. “Saved yr life. Isobel was going to shoot u. She wanted/deserved an explanation.” His face was a different shape without words constantly coming out of it. Like his eyes were bigger and his mouth smaller.

“You…” She started to say “you stupid dumbass” again, but it turned into: “You gave up your voice for me.”

Laurence nodded.

She put her arms around him, tight enough to feel him breathing. Lungs inflating and deflating, no sound but airflow. She couldn’t make herself grasp that he had done this on purpose. For her. Nothing magical had ever confounded her so much.

A pigeon landed on her shoulder. “Too late!” it burbled in her ear.

Fucking interrupting pigeon. “Why is it too late?” she asked.

“Too late,” was all it said in response.

“It can’t be too late,” Patricia said, “or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”