I shake my head. “You think you’re ready for a rematch?”

“You tell me.” Nine curls one of his arms behind him and juts the other out overhead, a bodybuilder pose. I can’t help but laugh.

“I’m sure he’ll be intimidated by flexing.”

“It’s more intimidating than sitting around, anyway,” counters Nine as he flops down on the couch next to me.

“You really think we should go storming West Virginia? After the beating we took at Dulce?”

Nine looks down at his fists, clenching and unclenching them, probably remembering how close he came to being finished off by Setrákus. How close we all came.

“I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “I just wanted to give this to you so you know it’s an option, all right? You might not think I’m, like, capable of learning my limitations and shit like that—but, back in New Mexico? I was maybe, just slightly, over my head trying to fight Setrákus alone. Six went off on her own too, Eight got wrecked, and everyone else was getting shot up. But you kept it together, man. You kept us together. Everyone knows it. I still don’t buy your bullshit about being Pittacus reincarnated or whatever, but you’ve got that team-captain vibe. So you do the leading and I’ll do the ass kicking. It’s what we’re best at.”

“Best? I don’t know—Six is pretty good at ass kicking, too.”

Nine snorts. “Yeah, she was super-badass in her freaking ceiling cocoon. That’s not the point, Johnny. The point is, I need you to tell me what to punch. And I need you to tell me soon or I’m gonna go stir crazy up in here.”

I take another look at Nine’s sketchpad. From the look of it, he probably got right to work on these drawings as soon as we returned from New Mexico. For all his bluster, at least he’s been trying his best to come up with a way to take the fight to the Mogadorians. Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck in this rut, unable to sleep, thinking myself in circles alone on the rooftop.

“I wish Henri was here,” I say, “or Sandor. Any of the Cêpans, really. Someone that could tell us what to do next.”

“Yeah, well, they’re dead,” replies Nine, bluntly. “It’s up to us now, and you’re always the one with the ideas. Hell, the last time I wouldn’t go along with your plan, I almost had to throw you off a roof.”

“I’m not a Cêpan.”

“No, but you’re a freaking know-it-all.” Nine pats me hard on the back, which I’ve come to realize is as close as he gets to real affection. “Quit whining, cut down on the snuggling with your little human girlfriend, and come up with some brilliant plan.”