“It’s okay, Edison, it’s okay. How does the song go? Here, I’ll try to hum it,” she said, the trembling in her voice giving away just how much she wanted to curl up in the corner and hide from him. Not him, the Foxfire. She could see him fighting it, hear the I and not the we. God, she had heard him hum that damned song so many times but the beginning eluded her. Softly, softly, she heard his low bass voice begin the horn’s line, climbing higher, then holding for half a second. That was it.

“Yes, like that,” Rosalyn cried. She picked up the song, humming along, her voice higher, not quite in harmony with his but following closely. Blood dripped down the shield between them. Her fingers smoothed over the tight circles of the fissure, a noticeable dent there but nothing sharp. Nothing breaking through.

Crack.

The blow to his temple interrupted the song, but it only made Rosalyn hitch and continue, humming as calmly as she could, trying to keep the thread of the melody while Edison joined in again, just a rumble in his throat, hardly more than a growl.

“You love this song,” she reminded him. “Dick Friday, right? You just sent me another one of his. I want to listen to it, Edison, but I want to listen to it with my own ears. Do you understand? Don’t come through this door. Don’t make me listen to that song with someone else’s ears.”

She hummed again and she would do it for as long as it took. He looked as if he were falling gently to sleep, lulled away from the Foxfire’s call and toward the lullaby of the familiar song. His fingers touched the shield on the other side of the fissure, blood running along his skin, tunneling into the barrier.

“Shhh, shhh,” she repeated, and it had the unintended side effect of soothing her, too, banishing the fluttery panic in her chest.

White became pale turquoise, which became light blue, then darker, then the hue she had come to consider “normal.” It would have to be enough. It was certainly better. Rosalyn felt one hot, fat tear escape, rolling over her cheek and splashing at the bottom of the visor. Her helmet clinked quietly against the shield as her humming grew less and less, until it was just a wisp on her lips, a heavy breath.

“Are you all right?” she murmured. Their fingers would have met if not for the shield.

Edison looked up, a swipe of blood across his forehead and nose. The tussle with Piero had broken his glasses on one side. He had repaired them, but now they were bent again.

“I should be asking you that.”

It was bone-deep relief to hear his true voice again, husky, hoarse, but human.