They woke simultaneously, feeling both starved and disgusted by the idea of eating food that had been prepared in this place. Especially meat, as Chevie had noticed a suspicious absence of rats. The sulfur-infused air had set their heads throbbing and stripped their throats of moisture.

“We need to buy some water,” said Chevie.

“Not here,” advised Riley. “A delicate gut like yours could not stomach Old Nichol water. It would be out again soon enough, one road or the other.”

Chevie did not ask for details, and she knew that being ill was not something she could risk right now.

“Okay. No water, spoilsport. You go back to sleep and let me think.”

Riley wriggled closer. “I am also thinking. Garrick has given me gifts that he may not expect me to use.”

“If you have an idea, please share.”

“I have the seed of an idea,” said Riley. “It needs... watering.”

Chevie may have chuckled or possibly shivered.

They sat without speaking for a while.

“Can I ask a question?” said Riley, long minutes after Chevie was certain he’d fallen asleep.

“Ask away,” said Chevie.

“In advance I beg you not to be insulted, for I do respect you.”

“Oh, I love these questions. Go on.”

Riley considered his phrasing. “Chevie, I heard how those agents from the future spoke to you. Why do you want to stay in the FBI when they don’t seem to want you? And how does someone of your years, and a female to boot, nab herself a position with the bluebottles?”

“That’s more than one question. That’s more or less my life story you’re asking for.”

Riley moved closer in case there was a candle’s worth of heat to be had. “You saw my life in the tunnel, Chevron. I think you could speak of yours. We are close now, are we not?”

“We are close,” agreed Chevie. She had never been closer to anyone. She was bonded to this boy by trauma. “Okay, I’ll tell you about me.”

Riley did not speak, but elbowed her softly in the midriff, which Chevie decided to interpret as go ahead.