Finch pulled Wyte back to the wall with him. The Partials had moved on ahead, oblivious to anything but their prisoners, but he didn’t want to take any chances. In a whisper: “Listen to me. I’m just trying to protect you.”

Wyte stared at him for so long that Finch had to look at the ancient dislodged stones of the sidewalk. A sudden hunger for a past when Wyte hadn’t been this way. A feeling so strong he felt water in his eyes.

Each word meant to wound, Wyte said: “I don’t need protecting, like I’ve told you. Back in the day, I protected you.” Then self-importantly, when Finch said nothing: “I’m going to work for the rebels soon. I know someone who knows someone.”

This shit again. Once every few weeks.

Something snapped in Finch. Felt it in his head like the sudden eruption of a migraine.

He shoved Wyte up against the wall. Didn’t care who was watching. Felt the air go out of the older man’s lungs. Those eyes scared by what they saw in Finch. Skin clammy. Some of Wyte’s shirt wasn’t really a shirt.

Finch said as calmly as he could: “You are not going to be a fucking spy for the rebels. You are not going to be a fucking spy for the rebels. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Get the fuck off of me!” Wyte hissed. Twisting in Finch’s grip. Head angled toward the sky. Shoulders arched back like he was trying to take off his coat but had gotten his arm stuck.

“You’re not. And do you know why not? Because you’ve been colonized. And it’s gone too far. And they’ll never take you.” Never take you back. Never want you now. Too late. “And if they did, you’d probably be spying on them. For the gray caps. Without even knowing it. Which is why you can’t.” And you’d be leaving me with a station full of detectives who hate me because I didn’t abandon you.

He released Wyte, pushing off him. Creating space between them in case it turned into a fight.

But Wyte stayed up against the wall. What was the look on his face? Didn’t matter. It was the way he stood. Finch had seen the same tired stoop in workers from the camps. Seen it at times in Rath.

Continued on now that it made no difference: “The closest you’ll get to working for anyone is wringing intel out of that ragged bunch of Stockton contacts you call a network.” Trailed off.

Wyte’s self-disdain when he turned to Finch made him look angry or righteous. A darkness there that might have been spores coming up through his skin.

“Better than doing nothing, like you.”