“Stop and think for a second,” I insist, realizing as I start that I’m not just trying to convince Nine but also myself. My fingernails dig into my palms—not sure if that’s from the concentration required to hold Nine with my telekinesis or from me straining to keep it together. Back on the roof of the John Hancock Center, I’d told Sam that we were at war and that there would be casualties. I’d thought I was prepared for that, but losing Eight—and now maybe losing the others in Chicago—no, I can’t handle that. That can’t have been my last conversation with Sam. It can’t.

“They wouldn’t be in Chicago anymore,” I continue. “They’d run. That’s what we’d do. And we know John is still alive or we’d have another scar. He’s got the tablet; he’s got his Chest. They’ve got a better chance of finding us than we have of finding them.”

“Uh, last time I saw John he was comatose. He’s not up for finding anyone.”

“An exploding building tends to wake a person up,” I counter. “He got out. We’d know if he didn’t.”

After a moment, Nine nods reluctantly. “All right, all right, let me go.”

I let him loose from my telekinetic hold. He looks away immediately, peering down the darkened road, his broad shoulders slumped.

“I feel like we’re screwed, Six,” Nine says, his voice hoarse. “Like we already lost and no one’s got around to telling us.”

I walk up next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. Our backs to the neon lights of Trapper’s, I can’t really see Nine’s face, but I’m pretty sure his eyes are wet with tears.

“Bullshit,” I reply. “We don’t lose.”

“Tell that to Eight.”

“Nine, come on—”

Nine shoves both his hands through his tangled black hair, almost like he’s going to pull some out. Then, he brings his hands down over his face, rubbing it. When he drops them back to his sides, I can tell he’s trying to be stoic.

“It was my fault, too,” he continues. “I got him killed.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Five kicked my ass and I couldn’t help myself. Had to keep talking, had to show him. It should’ve been me. You know it; I know it; Marina damn sure knows it.”

I take my hand off Nine’s shoulder and punch him in the jaw.

“Ow! Damn it!” he yelps, staggering away from me and nearly losing his footing in the gravel. “What the hell?”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, stepping towards him, fists clenched and ready. “Want me to kick your ass a little bit? Punish you for what happened to Eight?”

Nine holds up his hands. “Cut it out, Six.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him evenly, unclenching my fists and then jabbing him hard in the chest with my fingers. “Five killed Eight, not you. And the Mogadorians are to blame. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Nine replies, although I can’t be sure if I’ve actually gotten through to him or if he just wants me to stop assaulting him.