That’s why he was upset that I hadn’t sent him letters. While I hid out with my brother until the government stopped trying to haul me in for questioning, he was stuck in a detention center along with all the other people who got pulled out of the escape pods. He had no family, no friends. He probably thought there was no one left alive who cared if he ever got out. And then he boarded a helicopter and got his first taste of the news since his arrival in the real world.

My famous interview. The protests it spawned. The demands for the islanders’ freedom, for a peaceful first contact initiative, for the full crash-site findings to be released to the public. My story—and Elliott’s story, which I had to tell without his permission—was the catalyst for something big, something that’s still in the making. Something he didn’t get to have a say in.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

He sighs. “I’m sorry too. Thanks for saving my life. You’re still an ass.” But he smiles a little as he says it, forgiving me once again.

We stare at the moonlight reflecting off the waves in silence. I wonder if he’s seeing his ghosts the way I’m seeing mine.

“You could stay with us,” I say eventually. “If you want. Until you figure out what you want to do.” This offer is one of the main reasons I brought him here—so I could make it in person, so he would know I was serious—but I try to make it sound casual anyway, because I’m still me.

“Stay with you? Here on the island?” His tone is flat.

I make a face. “God, no. I don’t live here.”

“Then why exactly are you here?”

I stand up. I pull the shard of Mirage out of my pocket. This is the one thing I held back from the interview. If the authorities knew this existed, they’d take it away in two seconds flat. I can’t let them.

“I’m here because of this,” I tell Elliott.

He stands to get a better look at what I’m holding. He reaches out, takes the shard—and then grasps my hand, pulling my palm flat. The Being sting is a circle of scarred flesh now. There’s no red ring around it anymore, but black veins still bolt across most of my palm.

Elliott looks at me. Some emotion flits over his face, a cross between accusation and concern. “I thought this would be gone,” he says.

I sweep my thumb over the spot. “Not gone,” I say. “But it’s healed. Mostly.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s okay.”