He reached out, touched her shoulder. Her skin warm. Like he remembered it.

She clasped his hand. Eyes bright as she met his gaze. “Clean yourself up. Find someplace safe to be, Finch. The next time I see you, I might be forcing answers from you. And I really wouldn’t like that.”

He nodded.

A flash of those green eyes. She put his gun down on the table. “I’m leaving it for you, but I’m taking this.” Held up the metal strip Shriek had used. Unmistakable that it, ultimately, was what she’d come for.

“You shouldn’t.” But beyond caring. “It’ll do more harm than good.” To me.

“John, I don’t think you really know the difference.” Then she was walking out the door, down the hallway. Gone for good.

Finch stared after her for a moment. Then hobbled to the window. Looked out.

The towers were complete. They shone with green fire in the light. Between them, impossible scenes flashed so fast he caught only glimpses. A vast blue dome like an observatory. Replaced by a mountain topped by a tower. A city of gleaming buildings taller than any he’d ever seen. A forest of vine-like trees. A roiling sea over which egg-shaped balloons floated, trailing lines of shimmering light. And on it went. Almost beyond comprehension.

At some point soon, the scenes would stop changing. They would settle in on one scene. They would settle in on the gray caps’ home.

Would he know by then if he’d done the right thing?

5

The way home. So heavy, so light, he almost didn’t feel the pavement. Wearing one shoe. Only a sock over his other foot because it hurt too much. Somehow easier to hold the sword. The gun shoved into his belt. Head felt like a balloon stuffed with rags. Ached all over, with eruptions of pain in the places most sorely used by the Partial.

Through a haze, saw:

Partials gathered in a black squadron, marching toward a barricade manned in part by a truck weighted down by a cannon that had to be a century old at least. Two anemic mules whose ribs stuck out stood placidly behind the barricade. Along with the pale, uncertain faces of the defenders.

Gray caps approaching, at their back a huge cloud of spores, gliding and shifting, a thousand shades of green. Of red. Of blue. Suffocating the street. A last few stragglers running out before them, anonymous in their gas masks.