Desmond’s memories ended with Yuri Pachenko walking into his office in Menlo Park. The description of the man was vaguely familiar to Peyton. So was the name. But she couldn’t place either one.

“Do you know where they’re keeping the cure?” she asked.

“No.” He glanced over at her. “Did you ever get married?”

Peyton shook her head.

“Because of me.”

“Because of life, Desmond. It’s not your fault. And it’s in the past, okay?”

“Not for me.”

They rode in silence a moment.

Peyton spoke first. “Do you remember Avery?”

“No.”

“I still don’t trust her.”

“Same here. But she’s given us no reason not to yet.”

Peyton changed the subject. “How do you feel?”

“Like my head’s going to split open.” He studied her. “What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Be honest. You’re getting worse, aren’t you?”

“Getting sick’s an occupational hazard. I accepted the risks when I went to work at the CDC.”

“Well, I don’t accept it.”

Peyton stared out the windshield.

“You’re not going to die like this, Peyton.”

She massaged her aching neck; the turbulent landing had done more damage than she’d realized. “I’m usually the one telling sick people I’m going to fix them.”

“Well, I think you deserve a week off.”

They drove in silence after that. Peyton didn’t see a single building outside—no homes, no businesses. Except for the paved road that carved through the hills, this place was untouched by civilization.

“We’re coming up on it,” she said as she studied the Labyrinth Reality app. “A hundred yards to destination.”

Desmond slowed the car. “Direction?”

“Roughly ten o’clock.”

The road curved to the right. There was no driveway or path leading in the coordinates’ direction. Desmond pulled the car off the road and parked.

“Stay here.”

“No way.”

“Peyton—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“All right,” he said, resigned. It was the reaction of someone who had been married twenty years and knew when an argument was futile.

Outside the car, they crept into the forest. The ground rose with every step; the road sat in a valley. Ancient evergreen trees surrounded them. Between their canopy and the fog, the light of the moon and the aurora faded away. Peyton could see less than twenty feet ahead of them.

She touched Desmond’s shoulder, then pointed at the flashlight she held, silently asking him if she should switch it on.

He shook his head no. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, a handgun in one hand. With his other hand, he reached back, took Peyton’s hand, and led her through the dark forest.

It was utterly quiet. She heard no animals stirring, no birds calling. When she stepped on a branch and snapped it, the sound seemed deafening. Desmond froze.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

He waited for any reaction, any sound. But the forest remained still and quiet.

“Distance?”