“They—we do. But there are outliers. I know a girl who learned to do libriomancy with ebooks. Gutenberg carried stories around in a sword. As for me . . .” How to explain everything I’d learned, all the ways I’d changed in recent years?

A pair of doctors emerged from the room. I waited until they’d gone, then said, “Call it trial-by-fire. I’ve had to learn new tricks to survive some of what’s come my way.”

For the first time, I saw something more than frost and anger in his eyes. “What do you mean? What happened to you?”

Despite public hearings, investigations, and countless interviews, there were plenty of details I’d never shared. Details I tried not to think about. My instinct was to deflect the question, but that would only lead to another round of verbal fencing with poisoned blades. “Which time? Do you want to hear how I got stabbed, then merged my body with a five-hundred-year-old wood-and-metal automaton built by Johannes Gutenberg? That was a fun day. I got to visit the moon.”

He stared at me. “Bullshit.”

“When I was done, I plummeted through Earth’s atmosphere. Nearly burnt myself to a cinder in the process. Then last year, I deliberately triggered a trap created a thousand years ago by Pope Sylvester II that ripped my mind from my body and locked it away.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because the woman inside that trap had taken a friend of mine, burned down my house, and murdered thirty-seven people in Copper River, and I was damn well going to stop her.” He’d grown up in that house, too, and we’d both known most of those thirty-seven people who died. The only difference was that I’d always known why they died.

My heart thudded against my ribs, and my throat tightened. Memories surged through my mind: collapsed buildings and broken bodies, the smell of smoke, screams of fear and pain. I clenched a fist and looked away.

“What happened to her?” he asked. “The woman who took your friend?”

“She tried to escape.” I swallowed. “I stopped her.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. “That healing magic you Porters can do. How many times have you had to use that on yourself?”

I didn’t answer. Which was an answer in itself.

“Jesus, Isaac.”

“It’s not all bad.” I stared at one of the painted stars on the floor. “I spent a lot more time cataloging and researching than I did in the field. I’ve gotten to hang out with magic-users who were born centuries ago, and seen things everyone insisted were impossible. I’ve been to space twice. I even tried a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.”

“From Hitchhiker’s Guide? How was it?”