We follow Sam down a rusty spiral staircase and onto the floor of the factory proper. The place must’ve been closed down in a hurry because there are still racks of musty, eighties-style men’s suits pushed up against the walls and half-full boxes of raincoats abandoned on conveyor belts.

A Chimæra in golden retriever form that Sarah insisted we call Biscuit tumbles into our path, her teeth clenched around the ripped sleeve of a suit, locked in a tug-of-war with Dust, the gray husky. Another Chimæra, Gamera, which Malcolm named after some old movie monster, trundles after the others but has trouble keeping up in his snapping turtle form. The two other new Chimærae—a hawk we dubbed Regal and a scrawny raccoon we named Bandit—watch the game from one of the inoperative conveyor belts.

It’s a relief to see them playing. The Chimærae weren’t in the best shape when Adam liberated them from Mogadorian experimentation, and they still weren’t doing so hot when he brought them to Chicago. It was slow going, but I was able to use my healing Legacy to fix them up. There was something inside of them, something Mogadorian, that actually felt like it was pushing back against my powers. It even made my Lumen flare up briefly, something that’s never happened when using my healing. Ultimately, though, whatever the Mogs did was washed away by my Legacy.

I’d never actually used my healing Legacy on a Chimæra before that night. Luckily, it worked, because there was one Chimæra in even worse condition than all our new friends.

“Have you seen BK?” I ask Sam, scanning the room for him. I had found him on the roof of the John Hancock Center, shredded by Mogadorian blaster fire and barely clinging to life. I used my healing on him, praying that it would work. Even though he’s better now, I’ve still been keeping an extra-close eye on him, probably because the fates of so many of my other friends are unknown.

“There,” Sam replies, pointing.

At one end of the room, against a wall covered with competing graffiti tags, are a trio of industrial-size laundry bins overflowing with piles of khaki pants. It’s at the summit of one of these piles that Bernie Kosar rests, the antics of Biscuit and Dust seeming to tire him out. Despite my healing, he’s still weak from the fight in Chicago—and also missing a jagged chunk from one of his ears—but with my animal telepathy I can sense a sort of contentedness coming off him as he watches the other Chimærae. When BK sees us enter, his tail thumps fresh dust clouds from the pile of old clothes.

Sam sets down Stanley, and the cat trundles over to the clothes piles with BK, settling into what I guess is the designated Chimæra napping zone.

“Never thought I’d have my own Chimæra,” Sam says, “much less a half dozen of them.”

“And I never thought I’d be working with one of them,” I reply, my gaze settling on Adam.