We say our good-byes and I’m left with that same feeling of longing mixed with dread that I get after every one of these phone conversations. I trudge back to the SUV. Everyone else is already inside except for Sam.

“So you’re putting all of Walker’s documents on They Walk Among Us?” Sam asks. “It’s a good idea. Like anti-Mogadorian propaganda.”

“It’s a desperate idea, is what it is,” I say glumly. “No one’s going to be digging through search results while their cities are getting bombarded.”

“There’s a comforting thought,” Sam replies, frowning. “But seriously, that’s a lot of heavy reading. If you’re trying to get people on our side, it shouldn’t just be about the Mogadorians. You shouldn’t just be trying to scare people. They’ll be scared enough as it is. You’ve gotta give them some hope.”

“What do you suggest?”

Sam thinks about it for a second, then shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I’ll come up with something.”

I nod and pat Sam on the shoulder, the two of us climbing back into the car. I know he’s just trying to help, and that’s why I don’t tell him that whatever he comes up with . . . it might be too late.

We make it to New York about an hour later. I’ve never been here before and neither have Nine or Sam. I wish our visit could be under different circumstances. As we inch along in heavy traffic through a canyon of skyscrapers, I find myself craning my neck to look out the window. Chicago is a huge city, but the frenetic jostle of pedestrians on the sidewalks here is something else entirely. There are flashing signs advertising Broadway shows, yellow cabs darting in and out of traffic, a hum of activity all around us.

And these people have no idea what’s heading their way.

As we drive farther uptown towards Sanderson’s hotel, we pass a dude wearing a cowboy hat and underwear, strumming an acoustic guitar for a crowd of tourists. Nine snorts.

“Look at this,” he says, shaking his head. “That shit wouldn’t fly in Chicago.”

I lean forward to get Walker’s attention. “Are we close?”

“A few more blocks,” she replies.

I reach down to make sure my Loric dagger is still fastened securely to my leg. I also touch my wrist, reflex telling me to check for my shield bracelet, except that it’s gone, destroyed by the General.

“Did your guy on the scene tell you how many Mogs we should be expecting?” I ask Walker.

“A dozen. Maybe more.”

“That’s nothing,” Nine says, pulling on the gloves that Marina gave him. He clenches his fists and I inch away from him, wary that he’s going to accidentally trigger some kind of weapon. Thankfully, nothing happens.

“You’re wearing those into a fight?” Sam asks, eyeing Nine incredulously. “You don’t even know what they do.”

“What better way to find out?” Nine replies. “These Loric things, man, they have a way of not helping you until you’ve given up on them.”