It hadn’t occurred to me to look at the ground. The manhole is a bronze shield pressed into the pavement’s surface, and it’s half obscured by gull droppings. Painted on top is the Null symbol.

“We have to go down into the sewer?” Tanq says.

“Maybe there’s another symbol nearby,” I say. “Maybe that’s not the end of the trail. We just have to keep looking.”

But Trey is already walking forward. “This Null sign is different,” he says. “See the triangles beneath it?”

“Like something you’d see on a quilt,” I say.

Emmaline plows into the flock of seagulls, and birds scream their rage as they scatter. “But there’s no power anywhere,” Trey mutters, as though talking to himself.

“Huh?” says Tanq.

“Anything below ground would be flooded by now,” he explains. “We’re two blocks from Lake Erie! Without sump pumps constantly pushing out the water . . .”

“That can’t be where we’re supposed to go,” I insist. “There has to be another symbol nearby.”

I’m so wrapped up in searching for another Null symbol that I don’t notice the aircraft until its shadow passes over our heads.

“Run!” Tanq screams.

It arrows toward us, pointed nose silvery and slick, close enough that it blocks out the low sun.

My feet are frozen. We stand in a wide-open parking lot, no escape in sight. I don’t know what to do.

“This way!” Trey yells, beckoning, and I plunge after him. I don’t know where he’s leading us and I don’t care; I’m just glad someone is taking charge.

Tanq’s footsteps pound behind me; Emmaline keeps pace at my heels. I expect to feel a blast of excruciating heat at my back, a split second of blinding pain that heralds oblivion.

Trey’s long legs eat up distance, and we struggle to keep up. He takes a sudden hard left; we follow. Something zings in the air, and all the hair on my skin stands straight up. A wave of heat blasts the skin of my face. I waste precious energy looking over my right shoulder. A glassy crater takes up the space our feet were moments ago.

“Here!” Trey yells. “In here.”

He motions us into a tight alley between buildings, barely wide enough for my shoulders. My upper arm scrapes brick as Trey motions us through. He doesn’t follow until we’re inside. “Keep going,” he orders, and I’m glad to obey.

It’s musty and dark in here. I kick an empty beer can in my hurry; it pinballs against the walls before settling at the base of a struggling vine. The alley is too narrow for the dragonfly to follow, but it could still shoot at us. Or whatever its weapon does. I don’t remember seeing a bullet or laser or any kind of projectile. Just light and heat. Maybe it’s a different technology altogether.