The islanders scream and flee in every direction. Water splashes everywhere. The birds on the ground nearby take flight, a chaos of feathers and screeching. A gun fires into the air. The mayor yells and leans to the side to try to see who I’m pointing at. When she can’t get a good angle she strides into the mass of panicking humanity and starts shoving people, making her way in our direction. A good two-thirds of the cops scramble to follow.

“What the hell,” Elliott snarls at me, but he doesn’t get any further than that, because I shove him hard.

“The storm drain, idiot,” I hiss at him.

He hesitates. He glances around, but I’m still blocking the line of sight between him and his mom. He looks back at me. “Callahan, I have no idea what you’re doing, but if we get out of this alive—”

“You’re going to kill me, yeah, yeah,” I say, and shove him again. I raise my voice. “Oh my God, the mirror! It’s somewhere on the ground, where did it go?!”

More people scream. Several are knocked over, and their flailing bodies trip others, putting more obstacles in between us and the approaching cops. Elliott lets out a string of curses and then, finally, runs northward.

I turn toward the bridge. Several of the more industrious prisoners are leaping up and scuttling into the crowd, while others are frozen. The radio transmitter is on the ground, unguarded. I start toward it.

Someone knocks into me. I spin sideways, catching myself against another body. The man shoves me away, gets a good look at my face, then gasps and yells my name. A cop a few yards away hears and turns to look. It’s an older black officer, and at the sight of his face I can almost hear his voice calling my name like we’re old friends. Ginger’s partner.

I freeze in place. Then an alien urge fills me up, propels me forward against my will. I want to apologize. To ask him if he can still smell the blood and dryer sheets, too—if he can still see that bright green of Ginger’s eyes, still remember the way his body arced under that column of darkness.

I stop myself. The cop is shoving people aside, coming toward me, and he doesn’t look like he wants an apology. He looks like he wants to kill me. And, I remind myself, that would be extremely counterproductive for all of us.

I pivot, locate the transmitter again, and charge toward it. There are no wires—it’s battery-operated, remotely connected. When I go to pick it up, something small falls off the top and clatters to the ground. A remote. I grab it, find the button to stop the broadcast, press it, and then drop the remote into my pocket.