Alex realized he was pacing, touching uselessly at the walls. Forcing himself to stop, he stared at the flier lying among the dead foliage. He hadn’t managed to raise Harry, but he had definitely felt something moving when he’d tried to send his mind out to the old tablet. He had done it before. Maybe he could do this. He tried to recall the sensation of pushing a thought out. He could do this. So do it. He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, and tried reaching out with his mind again.

He had a sense that this would require a similar yet subtly different kind of movement to the one that led his mind toward the tablet. What had his grandfather told him about how the tall man’s gang powered the machines? They use themselves. So, then, he wasn’t trying to reach out to some other force this time. He was reaching out to . . . himself. The lock of his hair. Part of him.

He thought of the clip of hair, attempting to picture it clearly. The sounds of his grandfather struggling continued. He tried blotting them out—then, instead, focused on them. He stopped fighting it away and allowed himself to feel it all rushing around him, through him: fear, anger, panic. Use it as fuel. Take it in. Send it out.

He kept trying, went far beyond the place he thought he had to stop—and then he gave up, seized by a wracking coughing fit. Alex leaned against the shabby wall, panting. When he opened his eyes, it was several seconds before he realized the flier was no longer lying where he had dropped it. Searching around in bewilderment, he found it.

The robot hovered in the air just behind him.

Its wings beat so fast he couldn’t see them. Its propeller whirred hungrily. For an instant, he had a vague, unsettling impression of looking back at himself through its wavering eyes. Practically as soon as he noticed it, the machine fell lifeless to the ground.

Before he had time to think, Alex closed his eyes again. Thinking was no use. He had to feel it, deeper than thinking. Tune out thoughts but feel everything in him, everything around him. Fear and anger and panic. Put it into the effort. Not passing through doors this time, but . . . building a bridge.

He was one end of the bridge. And he was also the other end of it, the part of him waiting over there, the clip of hair. Build the bridge, then send a thought across it.

A rustling made him open one eye. The flier’s wings were moving on the ground, twitching, faster. As soon as he saw it, the movement stopped.

There was surprise now, a sliver of hope. Feed that into the mix, too. Use it all to shape the bridge, then send the thought across. Up, he thought, and felt the thought move.