It was Rhea who carried Typhus now, who would carry her to the next point—after that, he didn’t know. When she awoke, if she awoke, would she be better? Would they both be? He gritted his teeth until his mouth filled with saliva and blood, until his tongue swilled copper. He focused on that dizzying taste, on the physical act of his walking, the motion of his feet, the cluster of matter under his fingernails, the faint pump of blood from his left shoulder, collecting at his elbow and traveling down his forearm to his palm, the counterbalanced warmth and coolness, the associated peaks and valleys in the pain, the pulse in his ears, his forehead like a cracked windshield, held together by internal pressure, his broken nose, the scribble of white pain at the center of his back where the skin had been wrung open, the pace of his blinking, the effort of staying upright despite his exhaustion, the nauseating smell of gas, the blood loss—he didn’t let his mind stray from these details.

As soon as Rhea was out of view he’d forgotten which way the car had gone, and he appreciated not knowing. He chose the direction he was facing, the erratic streetlamps hovering ghostly in the heavy air like an ethereal gate, floating over the silent line of cars, the arc-shaped stain nestled at the edge of his vision, like blood in the corner of his eye. He noticed it only when he blinked. At some point the wounded Nissan sped past him—he had to get clear of the road—slamming on its brakes before the curve, scraping one of the parked cars as it went, but neither acknowledged the other, they were on their way gone like he was. He moved off along the side of the street toward that vague distance, and out, and out, and out. A breeze followed him, rustling the treetops, until it ran out, too.