No. But I think I can heal you now. Thank you for saving the others. About two-thirds of them made it out of the dream.

Two-thirds. That means one-third of the citizens of Cisco Island—nearly a thousand people—are dead now, because of the plan I enacted.

They would have died anyway. I did the only thing I could have done. Not in the right way or for the right reasons, though.

I glance at the body by my side. “I don’t want you to heal me,” I tell Mirage.

A pause. Why not? The escape pods I made, they’re built to survive re-entry. You could probably make it to one before I burn up. You would be fine.

“But Elliott wouldn’t. Could you heal him?”

I … think so. Yes. But I only have enough energy to heal one of you.

Everything in me curls up tight, even though I’d already guessed his answer. “Do you have enough energy for healing plus a short-range teleport?” I ask. “From here to the escape pods?”

I believe so. But, Marty—

“Do it. Heal him and teleport him to a pod. Quick, before I change my mind.”

Mirage hesitates again. In my head, he’s lit up bright orange with regret. You won’t change your mind, he says.

I manage a smile. “Shows what you know,” I say again, my voice shaking only a little.

What about you, then? What will you do? Won’t you at least try to get to a pod yourself? I might have enough energy left to transport you, too. You might survive long enough to see your brother.

“I’d only see him for a few minutes, if at all. And you’d die alone. You were by yourself all those years, traveling through space, trying to fulfill your purpose. And then when you did fulfill it, you got shot out of the sky. You deserve at least this much. You deserve to not be alone.”

Thank you, he says softly.

The floor beneath me is growing warm, getting eaten away by the orange flames. “Hurry, Mirage.”

His focus turns inward. Gently, with my free hand, I roll Elliott onto his back. His hand flops limply to the ground, fingers rusted in red-brown. The wound looks wrong now—too ragged, too vulnerable—so I cover it myself. His chest is barely moving with his breaths. There’s a long pause, much longer than it should be, between his inhales and exhales. His skin is cool beneath my hand.

When the wound starts to knit back together, I feel it under my fingers. First the bullet hole closes. Then his breathing eases, gets quicker, deeper. His skin takes on a healthy flush instead of that awful gray pallor. Then his forehead wrinkles like he’s starting to wake up.