Before long, in his high mental view, he spotted the hotel, the busier roads beyond. Arriving at a crossroads, his grandfather hesitated over the way to go.

“It’s left, I think,” Alex said.

“Think you’re right, Alex.”

In the small lobby, the old man and Harry called a car rental company, then gave the hotel’s bemused owner details about where to find the wrecked Citröen, and instructions for having a local garage transport it to Albert in Paris, along with extra cash not to ask questions.

Alex’s grandfather slapped his hands in satisfaction. “So: car’s on its way, they’ll fix us an early lunch, and lunch’ll do us good.”

The small dining room felt more like someone’s home than a hotel. They took a table by large windows that framed a panoramic view across the valley, the world vibrating in shades of green beneath bulging clouds so dark they were almost blue.

Look out your window. Alex sat thinking about Kenzie’s last message, still not understanding it at all.

It was barely nine in the morning. The place was almost empty, just one other couple finishing breakfast in the corner. “I propose,” Alex’s grandfather said happily, examining the menu, “we make the most of this. Nice big lunch. I’m hungry, and we need the energy. Now, this trout sounds rather delicious, eh?”

Alex tried to relax. The coast seemed clear, anyway. He had the flier perched on the hotel roof and flicked his mind across the bridge into it every few minutes, turning it on and off. After a while, he realized that, with a slight increase of effort, he could keep a small part of his consciousness active in the machine without having to focus entirely upon it: a kind of standby mode, like keeping a finger tapping. He recalled something his grandfather had said, about sectioning off the mind. This must have been what he’d meant.

When it arrived, the meal the old man had ordered—crispy fried fish, with creamy sauce and generous mounds of salad and potatoes—did something to restore Alex. As Harry started eating, Alex and his grandfather both stopped and stared, mesmerized.

“Somethin’ between me teeth?” Harry frowned.

“No, no,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Sorry. It’s just—how is it?”

“Yeah.” Harry waggled his fork. “Tasty.”

“No, I mean eating. How’s it feel? Is eating still something you can do? Want to do?”

“Eh? Oh, yeah. Forgot for a second.” Harry took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, reckon so.”

“How’s about a drink?” Alex’s grandfather hurried away and returned bearing two brandies. “Shall we do the toast?” The old man raised his glass “Remember, man, that thou art dust—”

“An’ that’s why you always feel so thirsty,” Harry replied. They touched cups and drank. “Oh, that’s a lovely drop,” Harry said, smacking his lips.