“Huh,” Five says, looking down at his chest, which sure looks solid enough to hit.

“There can be no violence here.”

We all turn to look at the room’s far wall, where a doorway just manifested. Standing there is a middle-aged man with a muscular build, his brown hair graying at the temples. He looks exactly the way I remember him.

“Henri?” I exclaim.

At the exact same time, Nine shouts, “Sandor? What the hell?”

Five doesn’t say anything. He simply glares at the man in the doorway, his lips curled into a sneer.

Nine and I exchange a quick look. It only takes us a second to realize that we’re all seeing different people. If it’s really Ella running this trippy dreamland, she must have plucked someone from our subconscious that we’d feel comfortable with. Except that doesn’t really seem to have worked with Five. He keeps balling and relaxing his fists, like he might spring forward at any second. I can’t help but smile looking at Henri, even though the moment is definitely bittersweet. “Are you . . . are you real?” I ask, feeling stupid asking this question.

“I’m as real as a memory, John,” Henri replies. When he speaks, I see a glow inside his mouth of the same energy that Setrákus Ra was mining from Lorien. It’s similar to the way Six described her group’s encounter with a briefly reincarnated Eight. I don’t think it’s just Ella pulling off this telepathic masterpiece anymore. She’s got some high-powered support.

“I’m sorry I got the penthouse blown up,” Nine says. He pauses for a response, then says, “Yeah, it was totally Five’s fault, you’re right.”

I glance first at Nine and then to Five, who still hasn’t said anything but appears to be listening intently, and finally back to Henri. We can’t see or hear each other’s visitors, only our own.

“What are you . . . ?” I’m about to ask Henri what he’s doing here, but I think better of it. Him being here actually makes as much sense as anything. There’s a much more important question that needs answering. “What’re we doing here?” I ask.

“You’re here to meet the others,” Henri replies, then turns around and walks through the open doorway that wasn’t even there a second ago. He motions for us to follow.

“What others?”

“All of them,” Henri says, and smiles at me in that same frustratingly knowing way that he used to. “Remember, John. You’ve only got one chance to make a good first impression. Better make it count.”