Gazing down from the windows of Nine’s penthouse never gave me a real sense of how truly busy the streets of downtown Chicago are. We exit into the midday sun and are immediately hit with a wall of noise, people talking, car horns blaring. It reminds me of the marketplace back in Spain, except times a thousand. Eight and I both find ourselves craning our necks upwards, trying to take in the buildings that tower above us. We’re walking slow, people shooting us annoyed looks as they’re forced to cut around us.

It’s a little intense for me out here. All these people, the noise, it’s way more than I’m used to. I find myself slipping my hand into the crook of Eight’s elbow, just to make sure we aren’t accidentally separated and lost in the crowd. He smiles at me.

“Where to?” he asks.

“That way,” I point, picking a direction at random.

We end up on the waterfront. It’s much more peaceful here. The humans wandering around the shore of Lake Michigan are like us—not in a rush to get anywhere. Some of them sit down on benches, eating their lunches, while others jog and bike by us, exercising. I feel suddenly sad for these people. So much hangs in the balance and they have no idea.

Eight touches my arm gently. “You’re frowning.”

“Sorry,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Less of that,” he says with mock sternness. “We’re just out for a walk. No big deal.”

I try to put the doom and gloom out of my mind and act the part of a tourist like Eight said. The lake is crystalline and beautiful, a few boats lazily cutting across its surface. We amble by sculptures and outdoor cafés, Eight taking an interest in everything, trying to consume as much of the local culture as possible, and cheerily trying to get me interested.

We stand before a large silver sculpture that looks like a cross between a satellite dish and a half-peeled potato. “I believe this human work was secretly influenced by the great Loric artist Hugo Von Lore,” Eight says, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“You’re making that up.”

Eight shrugs. “I’m just trying to be a better tour guide.”

His easygoing enthusiasm is infectious, and soon I’m wrapped up in this game of making up silly stories for the various landmarks we pass. When I finally realize that we’ve spent more than an hour on the waterfront, I feel guilty.

“Maybe we should get back,” I tell Eight, feeling like we’re shirking our responsibilities, even though I know there’s nothing for us to do but wait.

“Hold on,” he says, pointing. “Look at that.”