The inexplicable was seated on the ground, wedged in the corner in his absurd glass helmet that fit too closely. But he was no longer tangled in Angeline’s net. The net was discarded in pieces, shoved to the side.

Sasquatch looked up at them. His gaze sharpened. And it was probably Rector’s imagination, but the creature looked … clearer. Not healthy, but aware in a way he hadn’t previously.

Zeke began talking, because that’s what Zeke did. “Hey there, Mister Sasquatch.”

“He doesn’t know his name. Angeline said so.”

“I don’t care,” Zeke said. He didn’t look back at Rector. Then, to the seated animal that was neither an animal nor a person so far as either one of the boys could tell, he added, “You’re looking better. I see you looking at me, and I think your eyes are better. I know it’s only been a little while, but the cleaner air will help you, if you let it.”

He kept his voice level and smooth, and was careful to not make any sudden movements. It took Rector a moment to notice that he was copying Zeke’s posture and methods.

“You know what you’re risking,” Rector breathed. “You open that door and turn that thing loose…”

Zeke took out a key—had he taken the key with him? Why did everyone but Rector have keys?—and jammed it into the vintage lock with its rusty edges and squeaking mechanisms. He turned it, jerked the body, and the fastener popped and came away. The door opened. Inside Zeke stepped—still cautious, but with a curious confidence Rector wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

(But he had. With the fox, back in the Vaults.)

And the world was full of surprises.

The inexplicable did not move except to track Zeke with his eyes, sparing a slashing look of curiosity toward Rector. But since Rector was hanging back, he kept most of his attention on the scruffy, brown-haired boy in the weird mask. His gaze drew circles on the mask, as if trying his damnedest to understand what it was, and what was underneath it. Not looking at Zeke’s face, but trying to figure out if Zeke had a face.

“It’s a mask,” Zeke told him, as though he were reading the creature’s mind. “Does the same thing as yours.” He pointed at his filters, at the visor. And then he very, very slowly crept forward until he was well within grabbing distance, then crouched down just far enough to be at eye level with the sasquatch. He held up one finger, moved it slowly to the bulbous glass helmet, and gently tapped its nearest filter.

The inexplicable cringed.

Zeke didn’t. “See? Same as mine. And I bet you’re thirsty as can be inside that thing, but you can’t take it off quite yet.”