On the back of the photograph, his father had scrawled a few lines: “Sometimes a man will see in his own image a desert, and it is the need to make that desert bloom which drives him again and again to action, as hopelessness compels us to our end. Sometimes, too, a man will flee in the enemy’s direction, eager to weather any punishment—physical or mental—that proves he is still alive. Or, he does so from a pride that lies to him, tells him he can change what seems unchangeable.” From a book? His own thoughts? Finch would never know.

Feral jumped up on his lap. Began to purr as Finch petted him.

The rough-smooth taste of the whiskey scratched and soothed his throat. He sank farther into his chair. Maybe Sintra would come by tonight.

Never lost.

“Yes, I know, fat boy,” Finch murmured. Could sit there all night. Forget what he had to do and pull out a book that he’d read three or four times already. Pretend he lived in a better world.

Turned on the small radio on the table next to him. Feral stopped purring for a second. Only one station across the dial: the gray caps’ station. Gone any cacophony of voices and music. Usually just a single signal, filled with cryptic clicks and whistles. Punctuated by propaganda delivered in flat tones by human readers. “… A spy is caught and killed just outside the Zone … Sector 509 has been scheduled for renovation. Anyone living there should relocate immediately.”

But, tonight, nothing. That made thirty-seven days of static. What did it mean? Was it just another slackening of attention? Or something more serious? Finch had noticed a pattern. The new dislodged the old. A puppet government in place for six months dissolved when the gray caps turned to building the camps. Electricity no longer reliable since they’d started in on the two towers. These failings brought a twisted optimism. Maybe they can’t do everything at once. Or maybe there was a purpose to all of it that he just couldn’t see.

He pushed a complaining Feral off his lap. Walked back into the kitchen.

The memory bulbs lay on the counter. Vaguely round. Pitted and whorled. Smelling of both salt and offal. Already rotting?

Finch looked down at the cat, which had followed him expecting a treat. Wondered what would happen if he fed a bulb to Feral.

“You want to eat one of these and I’ll eat the other?” he asked Feral.

The cat walked back into the living room. Finch laughed. “Smart choice.” Picked up the phone receiver, dialed Rathven’s number. A crackling interference. At least it’s working.

Through the static: “I’m taking one now. Give it an hour. If I don’t call back, check on me.”

“I will. Be safe.”

“Thanks.”

Finch put the receiver down. Be safe. Don’t slip on the carpet. Don’t fall out the window.