“Someone’s gonna look through my glasses?” Tom asks. “I don’t want someone to get hurt because of me.”

Athena doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t move to calm his fears, either.

“These two”—she fans palms toward the men seated on either side of her—“are up next.”

Tom doesn’t know what to say. It’s one thing to reveal his invention, and it feels good for it to be received this way. Yet…these men right here?

They’re already standing up. Already getting ready.

“Don’t worry,” Henry says, suddenly at Tom’s side. “This is what they live for here.”

Athena rises from the stool and offers Tom her hand.

“I’d like to thank you for coming to Indian River,” she says. “And for having the balls to present your theory.” Then, smiling: “Make them do something we can relate to. Make them consider themselves…make them look within…like we do. What’s more relatable than self-reflection? Absolutely brilliant, Tom. You belong here. With us. Did you know that? Don’t answer. This is a big moment for you. For me, too. Welcome, Tom. Welcome to Indian River.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

The warring emotions within her are so extreme that Olympia endures actual, physical pain.

She’s told her mom her secret.

She told her!

And Malorie reacted with…pride? She reacted well. As well as she could have, given the circumstances. And it’s those circumstances that cause the war within.

Tom.

Gary.

Olympia doesn’t think Tom will have enough time in Indian River for something truly terrible to happen. They’re on their way, after all; it’s not like Tom vanished years ago and they just discovered his name on the census as being accounted for in a notoriously unsafe town. No. He’s just ahead. Out of sight, yes. But he can’t be too far.

The people there will have to get to know him before they can ask him to be a part of anything perilous.

But then again, what does she know? Tom could walk into the very building in which they’ve caught one, if they actually have done so. Olympia doesn’t think that’s possible. She’s seen them. Most of her life. And, to her, they don’t look like something to be caught.

“This way,” she says, gripping Malorie’s gloved hand and leading her around a dead body in the road. It’s an old man. He looks like he could be a hundred years old. There’s a tent twenty feet away. She thinks the man lived there. There’s no sign of self-immolation.

Old age, she thinks. But she does not say. Now isn’t the time.

And when is? When has it ever been the time?

“Do you see him?” Malorie asks.

Tom.

Tom left the train.

This is too much. This is bad.

“No,” she says. “But he can’t be far.”