As I’m considering this, Sam nudges me, pointing towards a nearby alley that will let us avoid the Mogs. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Before they get too close.”

I stay rooted in place, considering our odds. There are only twelve of them, plus the ship. I’ve fought bigger groups before and won. Granted, I’m still fatigued from an afternoon spent battling nonstop, but we’d have the element of surprise on our side. I could take down the Skimmer before they even realize they’re under attack, and the rest would fall easily.

“We can take them,” I conclude.

“John, are you nuts?” Sam asks, grabbing my shoulder. “We can’t fight every Mog in New York City.”

“But we can fight these ones,” I reply. “I’m feeling stronger now and if something goes wrong I’ll just heal us after.”

“Assuming we don’t, you know, get shot in the face and killed outright. Battle to battle, healing us right after—how much of that can you take?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s too many of them. We have to pick our battles.”

“You’re right,” I admit grudgingly.

We dart down the alley, hop a chain-link fence and emerge on the next block over, leaving the Mogadorian patrol to its hunting. Logically, I know Sam is right. I shouldn’t be wasting my time with a dozen Mogs when there’s a greater war to be won. After an exhausting day, I should be conserving my strength. I know all this is true. Even so, I can’t help feeling like a coward for avoiding the fight.

Sam points up at a sign for First Street and Second Avenue. “Numbered streets. We’re getting closer.”

“They were fighting around Fourteenth Street, but that was at least an hour ago. The way they were going at it, they could’ve gone in any direction from there.”

“So let’s keep our ears open for explosions and creative cursing,” Sam suggests.

We only make it a few more blocks uptown before crossing paths with another Mogadorian patrol. Sam and I huddle behind a delivery truck, abandoned carts of fresh-baked bread still sitting on the off-loading ramp. I poke my head around the front of the truck, taking a head count. Once again, there are twelve warriors with a Skimmer supporting them. This group behaves differently than the last one, though. The ship hovers in place, its spotlight fixed on the shattered front window of a bank. The Mogs outside all have their blasters pointed into the building. Something has them spooked.

I recount the pale heads glaring in the spotlight. Eleven. Only eleven where there were definitely twelve before. Did one of them just get ashed without me noticing?

“Come on,” Sam says warily, probably thinking that I’m spoiling for a fight again. “We should go while they’re distracted.”

“Hold up,” I reply. “Something’s happening here.”