He’s still not looking at me. “A mental construct,” he says. “I think it’s yours. I’ve been here about an hour, but from what I can tell, you’ve been here a little longer than that.”

There’s something off about his voice. It’s too calm. He always sounds too calm when he’s trying to hide something—fear, anger, vulnerability.

Pain.

I was falling.

Me too.

Something tight and fearful settles over me. I crouch down. Elliott’s knees are still pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around them. His shirt is dark gray, too dark to see any stains. I touch the spot between his shoulder and his heart. My fingers come back slick with red.

My stomach turns. “Elliott,” I say helplessly.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that’s a bad sign. Though it has been a while since I earned my first aid badge.”

He shrugs, but only with his right shoulder. The way he’s leaning against the iron bar starts to look less like casual stargazing and more like he’s propping himself up because he doesn’t have the strength to sit otherwise.

“But you got out,” I protest. “I got you out.”

He shifts his head in something that’s almost a nod—another motion made small, made painful. “I did get out,” he confirms. “Nice trick with the mirror, by the way.”

“Elliott,” I say again. The word is strained. He keeps dodging the obvious questions, keeps trying to distract me. Or himself.

He sighs: one last delay tactic. Then, finally, he looks at me. “I managed to stay conscious on Mirage for about an hour,” he says. His eyes are tight with the pain he claimed wasn’t there. “During which time I dragged you about halfway to the escape pods. Some of the other people who woke up tried to help me at first, but then Mirage started crashing, and it was everyone for themselves. Then I fell unconscious. From blood loss, probably. As soon as I passed out I was sitting up here on this tower with your body lying next to me. It’s been an hour since then.”

I stare at him. “You … tried to drag me to the escape pods?” I say at last.

He’s been slowly bleeding to death for two hours. He was conscious for half that time—time that he’d spent trying to get me to safety. If he’d left me behind, could he have made it to the pods, made it to Earth? Made it to medical help quickly enough to save his life?

All this time I’ve been lying to him, thinking I needed to persuade him to help me save everyone. But he wouldn’t have needed any persuading, would he? Not if he spent his last moments trying to save me.