Mollie knew what that meant. She knew why they’d called her in California (don’t think about the T-shirt shop, don’t think about what happened there, don’t think about WHAT I DID TO THOSE PEOPLE don’t don’t don’t think about portaling two people into the same body don’t don’t don’t think about the torn-sodden-bedsheet sound they made when they exploded like an overfilled water balloon oh God oh God oh God don’t think about all the blood fountaining down the shop window for everybody to see and hear the sounds of teeth and shattered ribs hitting the ceiling fan blades don’t don’t don’t just DON’T FUCKING THINK ABOUT CALIFORNIA) even before she heard Ink’s voice. She hadn’t wanted to accept it, or admit it to herself, and maybe that stoked the murderous rage that erupted in … in … that place. But it was obvious.

Babel needed Mollie’s help. And from the way she and Ink stared at her and whispered, she needed it desperately. Even a person half out of her wits with grief and fear of herself could see that.

She couldn’t stand it. The naked fear on their faces. Not the fear for themselves—though that was present, too—but fear that Mollie was too far gone to do whatever it is they needed from her. They were wondering when she’d blow up again, when she’d try to murder them in a fit of pique.

“Oh, Jesus, stop whispering. I might be losing my mind, and increasingly prone to random acts of violence, but I’m not stupid. You need me for another taxi ride.”

They stared at her. Shared a look. Then Babel gave Ink some minute sign, and the tattooed woman departed. Mollie realized she hadn’t closed the New York portal. That was getting harder, too. She waited until Ink was back at the UN before clenching her eyes shut, concentrating hard until the damn thing closed.

“‘Increasingly prone to random acts of violence’? What exactly do you mean by that?”

Only then did Mollie realize there was another person in the room. Billy Ray, the SCARE guy with the mashed-up face. He’d been sitting in the corner the entire time. Probably chiming in on Babel’s phone call. He sat next to the door, and Mollie had too much blood caked in her eyes (strangers’ blood don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about what they didn’t deserve) to see him when Ink carried her through. The question had come from him.