“Well, that’s an honor,” Sam says, looking down at his hands and thinking it over. Or, more likely, thinking about Six. “A terrifying honor.”

“You did good out there. I couldn’t have saved all those people without you,” I reply, patting Sam on the back. “The truth is, I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how or why you suddenly developed a Legacy. I’m just glad you have it. I’m glad there’s a little hope mixed into the death and destruction.”

Sam stands up, pointlessly brushing some crumbs off his dirt-caked jeans. “Yeah, that’s me, the great hope for humanity, currently dying for another sandwich. You want one?”

“I can get it,” I tell Sam, but when I lean forward to get off the futon, I’m immediately woozy and have to sink back down.

“Take it easy,” Sam says, playing it off like he didn’t notice what a mess I am. “I got the sandwiches covered.”

“We’ll just hang here for a few more minutes,” I say groggily. “Then we’ll go track down Nine.”

I close my eyes, listening to Sam clatter around in the kitchen, trying to spread peanut butter with a telekinetically held knife. In the background, always in the background now, I can hear the steady thunder of fighting somewhere else in Manhattan. Sam’s right—we’re the resistance. We should be out there resisting. If I can just rest for a few more minutes . . .

I don’t open my eyes until Sam shakes me by the shoulder. Immediately, I can tell that I’ve dozed off. The light in the room is changed, the streetlights coming on outside, a warm yellow glow under the curtains. A plate stacked with sandwiches waits on the couch next to me. I’m tempted to dive right in and chow down. It’s like all my urges are animal now—sleep, eat, fight.

“How long was I out for?” I ask Sam, sitting up, feeling a little better physically but also feeling guilty for sleeping when there are people dying all over New York.

“About an hour,” Sam replies. “I was going to let you rest, but . . .”

In explanation, Sam gestures behind him, towards the small flat-screen television attached to the room’s far wall. The local news is actually broadcasting. Sam’s got the volume muted and the picture occasionally gives way to bursts of static, but there it is—New York City burning. Grainy footage shows the looming hulk of the Anubis crawling across the skyline, its side-mounted cannons bombarding the uppermost floors of a skyscraper until there’s nothing left but dust.

“I didn’t even think to check if it was working until a few minutes ago,” Sam says. “I figured the Mogs would’ve knocked out the TV stations for, you know, war reasons.”