A blaze from outside: the lights were on. Peter unfolded his legs from under the table and rose to his feet.

“Would you really have stuck Sam with that cross today?” he asked her.

Alicia was below him now, illuminated from behind, her face sunk in shadow. “Honestly? I don’t really know. I might have. I’m sure I’d be sorry if I had.”

He waited, saying nothing. Resting on the floor was Alicia’s pack—food and water and a bedroll, her cross beside it.

“Go on,” she urged, tipping her head toward the door. “Get out of here.”

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“Peter,” she said with a laugh, “when wasn’t I?”

In the Lighthouse, Michael Fisher was having more than his share of problems. But worst of all was the smell.

It had gotten bad, really bad. A sour, armpitty reek of unwashed body and old socks. A moldy-cheese-and-onions sort of smell. The air was so rank that Michael could barely concentrate.

“Flyers, Elton, just get out of here, will you? You’re stinking the whole place up.”

The old man was sitting in his usual spot at the panel to Michael’s right, his hands lying heavily on the arms of his old wheeled chair, face turned slightly to the side, away. After they’d powered up for the night—levels all green as far as that went; the station, whatever might have happened down there, was still sending current up the mountain—Michael had resumed work on the transmitter, which now lay in pieces on the counter, their images bulging through the articulated magnifying glass he’d carried out from the shed. He’d been nervously anticipating a visit from Sanjay, to ask him about the batteries; he was ready at a moment’s notice to scoop the whole thing into a drawer. But the only official visit had come from Jimmy, late in the afternoon. Jimmy didn’t look so hot, sort of flushed and out of it, like maybe he was coming down with something, and he’d asked about the batteries sheepishly, as if he’d forgotten all about them and was almost too embarrassed to bring it up now. He hadn’t gotten farther than a meter from the door, though the smell would keep anyone away, a barricade of human stink, and had appeared to take no notice of the magnifier, sitting out there for anyone with half a brain to see, nor the open slot on the panel with its colored cables and exposed circuitry and the soldering iron resting beside it on the counter.

“I mean it, Elton. If you’re going to sleep, go do it in back.”

The old man twitched to life, fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. He turned his blind, rigid face to Michael.

“Right. Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you solder it?”