“I won’t ever let go of you again,” he whispered. She smiled faintly.

“Could get awkward,” she whispered. She opened her mouth as if to go on, then sighed, shuddering. John scooted closer, alarmed.

“What’s—” She took another breath. “Wrong with me?” she finished in a rush. She opened her eyes, looking at him plaintively.

“How do you feel?” he asked, avoiding the question.

“Tired … everything hurts,” she said haltingly, her eyes drifting shut, and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep his face neutral.

“I’m trying to help you,” he said finally. “Look, you have to know—there’s someone, something, out here impersonating you; saying that she is you.” Her eyes snapped open and she squeezed his hand suddenly: she was alert. “She looks just like you. I don’t know why, I don’t know what she’s after, but I’m going to find out. And I’m going to help you.”

“Afton,” she breathed, her voice barely audible, and John quickly reached over the couch to grab the pillow he’d brought.

“Can you lift your head?” he asked, and she did, slightly, letting him slide the pillow into place. “We know it’s Afton,” he said, picking up her hand when she was settled again; she squeezed it lightly. “I have one of the chips. Afton Robotics. Charlie, I’ve got this. Clay’s helping, and Jessica, and we’re getting Marla to help you get better. It’s going to be okay. Okay?”

But Charlie had drifted back into unconsciousness; he had no idea how much she had heard, or understood. Her hand had gone limp in his own.

*  *  *

Someone that looks like me … Never let go … John? Charlie struggled to order her thoughts: things that had made sense a moment ago were losing their shape, drifting out of reach in a dozen directions like petals on the water. The door …

“It’s going to be okay,” John said, but she didn’t know if he said it in her head or in the world. She felt herself slipping back into the dark; she tried to hold on, but the exhaustion was weightier than she was, pulling her inexorably down with it.

*  *  *

Charlie glanced at the door again. He’s late, or I’m early. She picked up the fork in front of her and ran her thumb over the smooth metal; the tines hit her water glass with a clear ding! and she smiled at the sound. She hit the glass again. How much does he know?

Charlie struck the glass again, and this time she noticed several other patrons turning to look at her in confusion. She smiled politely, then set her fork down on the table and folded her hands in her lap. Charlie took in a breath and composed herself.

*  *  *