And then, of course, there’s the brand-new cluster of prefab buildings over my left shoulder. One of the researchers who works here has had their radio on full volume for the last few hours. The news station has played my interview—the now-famous one that I gave the day after I arrived back in the real world—twice during that span of time.

Tell them I meant no harm, Mirage said. I’ve done much more than that. I’ve told his story, and mine, in the hope that the next time a beautiful oval ship flies overhead, humanity won’t murder it.

The radio is drowned out by the drone of an approaching helicopter. It’s a sleek black one that blends in with the night sky, not the dingy white chopper that carried me to my exile, but I flinch anyway. I don’t look up, don’t track its progress. A sudden flood of uncertainty tingles in my gut.

The islanders were released from FBI custody today. Thirteen hundred vaguely familiar strangers, plus one Elliott Ackermann.

The helicopter lands. It’s only on the ground for a moment before lifting off again, leaving a small figure staring up after it, his forearm held up to protect his face from the flying debris. I keep him in my peripheral vision as he lowers his arm. As he looks around. As he spots me, pauses for a long moment, and then walks in my direction.

I’m sitting on the edge of what used to be a bridge support. It creaks as he sits down next to me. There’s a long moment of silence, and then:

“You look like shit,” Elliott observes.

I let out a breath. The uncertainty settles. “I’ve been here three days. There’s no running water,” I explain.

“So that’s the same, at least.” He’s looking at the remnants of the bridge now too.

I risk a glance at him. He’s a little thinner than I remember, his cheekbones almost gaunt—with leftover grief or from his long stay at the detention center, I’m not sure—and there’s a new sort of quietness about him. Not like he’s hiding his emotions. More like he’s learned to get along with them, maybe.

His knees are pulled up, his arms wrapped loosely around them. It makes me remember the way he looked in that last mental construct, on the radio tower. When he was dying. I flinch again, and look away.

He catches the motion but doesn’t remark on it. “With all your newfound wealth, I’d think you’d be able to afford swankier accommodations,” he says instead.