“Good pep talk.”

She squeezes my hand, hard, and widens her eyes at me like shut up.

“But those guys down in Florida are Garde,” she says. “They’re going to fight, they’re going to keep going and they’re going to win. You have to believe, John. When you were comatose back in Chicago, we never gave up on you. We kept fighting and it paid off. Just when it seemed like we’d lost, you saved us.”

I think about the state my friends were in when I finally awoke back in Chicago. Malcolm was mortally wounded and Sarah badly hurt, Sam nearly out of ammo and Bernie Kosar unaccounted for. They’d put it all on the line for me.

“You guys saved me first,” I reply.

“Yeah, obviously. So return the favor and save our planet.”

The way she says it, like it’s no big deal, makes me smile. I pull Sarah close and kiss her.

“I love you, Sarah Hart.”

“Love you back, John Smith.”

“Um, I love you guys, too . . .”

Sarah and I both turn to find Sam standing in the doorway, an awkward smile on his face. Curled up in his arms is a huge orange cat, one of the six Chimærae that our new Mogadorian friend brought with him, drawn to us by Bernie Kosar’s rooftop howling. Apparently, the stick BK took from Eight’s Chest was some kind of Chimæra totem used to lead them to us, like a Loric dog whistle. We stuck to back roads on our way to Baltimore, careful to make sure we weren’t tailed. The crowded van ride gave us plenty of time to brainstorm names for our new allies. This particular Chimæra, preferring a chubby cat-shape as its regular form, Sam insisted we name Stanley, in honor of Nine’s old alter ego. If he’s still alive, I’m sure Nine will be thrilled to have a fat cat with an obvious affection for Sam named after him.

“Sorry,” Sam says, “did I spoil the moment?”

“Not at all,” Sarah replies, stretching out one arm towards Sam. “Group hug?”

“Maybe later,” Sam says, looking at me. “The others are back and setting everything up downstairs.”

I nod, reluctantly letting go of Sarah and walking over to the duffel bag with our supplies. “They have any problems?”

Sam shakes his head. “They had to settle for just a couple of little camping generators. Not enough cash for something big. Anyway, it should be enough juice.”

“What about surveillance?” I ask, pulling the white locator tablet and its adapter free from the duffel bag.

“Adam said he didn’t see any Mog scouts,” Sam answers.

“Well, out of anyone, he’d know how to spot them,” Sarah puts in.

“True,” I reply halfheartedly, still not trusting this so-called good Mogadorian, even though he’s done nothing but help us since showing up in Chicago. Even now, with him and Malcolm setting up our newly purchased electronics on the factory floor below, I feel a vague sense of unease at having one of them so close. I push it down. “Let’s go.”