He found himself gravitating to a bench next to the quaint little church. His feelings were conflicted—he didn’t exactly want to be out in the open for people to gawk at him, but he didn’t want to be in his room alone either. It was funny how the mind worked sometimes.

Seeing no one around, he sat down on the hard bench. The light breeze felt nice against his face, and even seemed to soothe his cut forehead. He had been running around so much chasing phantoms and crawling into tunnels and rescuing people from car wrecks, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d just sat still.

He wondered what Sam would say if she could see him now.

“This seat taken?”

He jumped and looked up to see Sally standing there. She was trailed by the two sheep, who were obviously hoping for some kind of food offering. Sally looked deflated—her hands tucked inside her hoodie pockets, her hood up. She looked like she was in mourning.

Robin shifted to the side of the bench so Sally could sit.

“Heard what you did,” Sally said. “So are you like Superman now?”

Robin started to respond and then realized she was joking. He looked at her. She didn’t really seem to be enjoying it either. “I’m not really in the mood, Sally.”

“You mad at me because I put your name in the article?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not mad at you. You did good work. Thank you for getting me back to The Hamlet.”

She smiled. “Believe me, I’d love to take all the credit, but your little friend helped me.”

“What friend?”

“Polly Pocket. From The Hamlet.”

“Do you mean Amber?”

“Yeah, that’s her name. I got you to the Marsden side of Standedge and she was there walking, so she helped me carry you back.”

Amber? “What was she doing around Standedge?”

“I don’t know, walking. You better be thankful she was there or you’d have woken up in a bush. You should really do some cardio,” Sally said, eyeing his stomach. He had a feeling she was attempting humor again.

Robin opened his mouth to say something and realized he had no idea what, so closed it again. They sat in silence for a moment.

“Is there any news?” he said finally. “Anything at all?”

“What do you mean?”

“You run a news website—you must have sources. Is there any news on Matthew McConnell?”

“I run an underground website that no one had ever heard of before today,” Sally corrected him. “I don’t have any sources. I don’t know any more than you do. Unfortunately. We’re both civvies.”