Then Matthew was through the security system and facing the empty, wooded country road and the mailbox on an ordinary, chilly day in the present. There was a faded wood cabinet behind the mailbox for the delivery drivers to leave parcels in, but there were no parcels today. Instead, there were a few pieces of junk mail (boring) and an art museum postcard addressed to Declan (even more boring).

Lame. His sour mood remained.

He plunged back through the security system.

This time it gave him a memory he didn’t want at all, that was just him having to leave Aurora behind in Ronan’s dreamt forest Cabeswater before it was destroyed. The memory hadn’t been bad when it happened, even though Matthew never liked saying goodbye to her, but it was terrible now because he knew it was the last time he saw her before she died.

She wasn’t your real mother, Matthew told himself. She wasn’t even Declan’s real mother. She was just a dreamt copy.

But it never made him feel any better, so he was swiping a tear away when he emerged in front of Declan again. This infuriated him, too.

“Was that worth it?” Declan asked drily.

Matthew handed over the mail. “No groceries. We’re out of peanut butter.”

“There’s a man in Orange who I think will sell us a Sentra for cash. Then we’ll be able to do some shop …” Declan’s voice trailed off as he turned the postcard over.

“Is it from Ronan?” asked Matthew. It didn’t seem very Ronan-y. The postcard featured a painting of a woman dancing with the words ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER MUSEUM, BOSTON, MA, printed over it.

Declan didn’t answer; his cheeks were a little flushed.

“What is it?” Matthew could hear himself sounding a little whingy and was annoyed. Stop being a kid, he told himself.

Declan was smiling. He was trying not to, but he was. He had ironed his voice flat, though, so that if one hadn’t seen his face, one would think it was just a normal day, normal mail. “How do you feel about a trip to Boston?”

Matthew looked at the dreamt fireflies still winking in and out around them. Ronan’s dreams. Just like him.

“Anywhere’s better than here,” Matthew said.

“Finally,” Declan replied, “something we agree on.”

Chapter 6

What do you feel?” Bryde asked.

“Shitty,” Ronan replied.

“I said what, not how. Hennessy?”

“I feel nothing,” Hennessy said. “Except the feel of my arteries closing in anticipation. Smell that grease. I love it.”

Bryde shut the car door. “This isn’t going to make you feel better.”

“It’s not going to make me feel worse,” Ronan replied.

“If life’s taught me anything,” Hennessy said, “it’s that you can always feel worse.”