The machine was in the air, metal wings thrumming. As soon as he thought about it, it all stopped and the flier fell. Five seconds later, he had it flying once more. Alex sensed himself trying to divide his mind, block part of it off from the rest. Shutting doors. The trick was connecting without thinking about it, almost without knowing he was doing it. Like sprinting fast down a flight of stairs—try to think about what your feet are doing, and you lose control.

In fits and starts, dipping, then climbing, he sent the machine wobbling upward.

Vague amber flashes were going off across Alex’s vision. He was seeing the wall of the well through the flier’s eyes. With that realization, the connection broke again. He caught the machine, threw it back up, then sent his mind after it, building the bridge. Up. The ladder appeared in his flickering picture. Alex distantly felt himself reaching out a hand, felt the flier’s little hook bite into rope. Now, leaning back, he dragged it down.

Looking up to see, he lost the connection, caught the flier as it fell. He stuffed it in his pocket. The bottom rung hung little more than arm’s reach above.

“Close enough for a big hop now,” he muttered. He pressed back against the wall, took two steps, and leapt. Catching hold, feet scrabbling against slippery bricks, he hauled up until he could grab the next rung, then the next. His grandfather’s yells grew clearer as he neared the top.

“Ow, oh, ow, oh, you devil, ow . . .”

Just below the opening, Alex paused, trying to form some plan to take him into the next few seconds. There was no plan. He steeled himself to move anyway. Not thinking had carried him this far.

Alex heaved himself out of the well.

XX.

OVERGROUND

Alex hit the ground and rolled into an alert crouch, surveying the scene. The sight flummoxed him.

They were out by scraggly trees at the end of a long, drab brown field. The derelict remains of an abandoned farmhouse stood close by, forest clustering behind, wooded hills beyond.

Zia lay alone on her back on a felled tree trunk, watching the clouds. Scattered on the ground around her lay objects Alex recognized as the contents of his coat pockets: his house keys, wallet, and phone. The latter lay broken beside the fist-sized rock he had picked up on the mountain, which Zia had presumably used to smash the phone to bits.

With one hand, Zia swiped a stick absently against the log, making thumps and cracks. With the other, she occasionally gave herself a lazy slap on the cheek, or pounded her chest. All the while, she sang out anguished sounds in perfect imitation of Alex’s grandfather’s voice.

“Ow, you villain, oh, oh— Oh.” Seeing Alex, she sat up and frowned. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she said, still speaking with the old man’s voice.