“I remember Henri reading a story about a girl lifting a car off someone in Argentina,” I say. “We always thought that could be Five.”

“Sounds like a tabloid story to me,” Six counters.

“Guy or girl doesn’t matter,” interrupts Nine, waving at the computer screens. “Scared doesn’t haven’t to mean stupid.”

I find myself agreeing with Nine. Assuming this message is actually from Five and not some elaborate Mogadorian trap, it’s a really bad way to get our attention. Because if we noticed it, then the Mogadorians definitely did too.

We’ve all crowded into Sandor’s workshop. Nine has paused the newscast on the overhead shot of the Loric symbol while we figure out what to do next. I have the macrocosm from my Chest open, the holographic Loric solar system floating peacefully in the space over the table.

“He must not have his Chest open,” I say. “This would change into the globe if he did.”

Eight stands next to me, clutching a red communication crystal he pulled from his chest. It’s the same one we found in Nine’s and used to try sending Six a message when she was in India.

“Are you out there, Five?” Eight speaks into the crystal. “If you are, you should probably stop setting things on fire.”

“I think he can only hear you if his Chest is open,” I explain. “In which case, he’d show up on the macrocosm.”

“Ah,” says Eight, lowering the crystal. “They couldn’t have packed us cell phones?”

Meanwhile, Nine has plugged our locater tablet into one of Sandor’s computers. The newscast blips out of existence, replaced by a map of Earth. There’s a cluster of pulsing blue dots in Chicago—that’s us. Further south, there’s another dot, moving extremely fast from the Carolinas towards the middle of the country. Nine looks over at me.

“He’s made a lot of miles since I checked on him this morning. First time he’s come in from the islands, too.”

Six points at the screen, tracing a line back to where the crops were burned. “It makes sense. Whoever it is, they’re on the run.”

“They’re moving really fast, though,” puts in Sarah. “Could they be taking a plane somewhere?”

The dot on the screen suddenly takes an abrupt northward turn, crossing through Tennessee.

“I don’t think planes move like that,” says Six, her brow furrowing.

“Super speed?” Eights asks.

We watch as the blue dot crosses right through Nashville, never slowing down or changing directions.

“There’s no way they just zipped through a city at that speed on a straight line,” Six says.

“Son of a bitch,” growls Nine. “I think this idiot can fly.”