The doctor leaves her. Misery hears, in the background, the beeps of console commands. The low sound of a replicator whirring, packs of matter being shuffled around the guts of some hideously complex machine. She buzzes with an equal amount of fear and possibility. Maybe this is a delusion. An extended dream, a post-death, maybe this is the nullvoid itself and Misery will remain here forever, playing out some extended, overcomplicated hallucination.

Dr. Sower returns with a hypo sting, which she presses against Misery’s neck. A burst of coolness and tingling. What is that? Some kind of salve? It’s not like she can resist.

A clink, as the doctor turns to deposit something into the recycler. Misery puts her palm over her chest and finds emptiness. “Where’s my amulet? My mother’s gift to me.”

“You mean the necklace? Gimme a sec. Where did I put the damn thing … Aha.”

She returns with the precious trinket, its cord a messy tangle. Drops it into Misery’s waiting palm. Its weight and coolness is a balm. Misery grips it so hard her hand shakes. What would Mother think, seeing her like this? She would probably say It’s okay, baby, you tried your best. Mother was always too easy on her.

Dr. Sower seems sorry for her vinegary attitude. With a kinder face and a kinder voice she says: “I know you’re worried. You’ve been through a lot, and it sucks. But you know what? You survived. And that’s what counts. The Demiurge hasn’t abandoned you. Say a prayer of grace before bed tonight.”

Misery stares at the dead ceiling. “Funny you should say that. I mean, I failed, didn’t I?”

“Failed? In what way?”

“I was supposed to be a seraph pilot. That’s what the General wanted, right? But I failed. Something happened. It resisted me. I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

“Huh. I mean, maybe the General was wrong this time. After all, they’re a simple mortal. But you seem as lost as the rest of us. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll come to you eventually.” As Misery struggles to understand what the doctor means, she gets poked in the shoulder. “You can sit up now. Try going slowly.”

Misery’s body is stiff and reluctant to budge from the gelatinous comfort of the bed. But it’s not hurt, and it’s not broken, and she manages to push herself upright. As she suspected, she’s in the glass-and-metal nave of the medical lab where she first met the doctor. Bright and clinical and cool. She scans the room, and her heart drops.

At the nave’s periphery, leaning against the glass of the open doorway, is the Lady Lee Alodia Lightning. Brows knit, a plait of shining hair hanging over one shoulder. Waiting for her. Waiting for Misery.