He coughed, hard, and tried to push himself back up, but Roman was on his back, one arm braced against his neck and the base of his skull.

There was a click that could’ve been a thumb sliding over the hammer of a gun—that was probably a thumb sliding over the hammer of a gun—and cold metal pressed up against the back of Ash’s neck.

Ash closed his eyes. Everything inside of him went still.

A second passed, and then another. Roman swore under his breath. But he didn’t fire.

Ash was sweating, shaking, trying to think. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and blood in his eyes.

Why wasn’t he firing?

The answer came to him in a flash of image: a boy on his knees in a muddy clearing, surrounded on all sides by black tents. A little girl lying in his arms, limbs rigid, eyes vacant and staring . . .

Ash felt like he was still standing at the edge of that clearing, mud beneath his boots and rain pounding at his shoulders as he watched Roman’s little sister die on the ground before him.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” he asked, his voice thick. It was the same question he’d asked Roman back at the clearing in 2074, and he found that he couldn’t let it go. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have understood?”

Roman was breathing hard. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Don’t you dare talk to me about Cassia.”

“You were my best friend,” Ash continued. And now another memory was invading his mind, crowding out the images of Cassia’s death:

It was the morning after Roman’s betrayal. Ash had woken to find his gun stolen, and a crumpled piece of notebook paper in its place. Scrawled across it were the words So long, old friend, written in Roman’s familiar, slanted hand.

Ash had kept the note with him that entire day, clenched in one hand as he watched the still, black waters, waiting for Roman to return. He would’ve forgiven him. He would’ve forgiven Roman almost anything, back then. But Roman had never come back.

Now, Roman clenched his eyes shut. His hand, still holding the gun, was trembling. “Don’t.”

How long had he been holding on to this pain? Ash wondered. It had been two years since Cassia died, a year since Roman had defected to the Black Cirkus. And all that time he’d spent plotting and planning, trying to find a way back to her.

“I would’ve helped you,” Ash said, and meant it. He would’ve done whatever Roman had asked of him and needed no explanation, just as he would’ve for Chandra or Willis or Zora. “If you had told me what you wanted to do, I would’ve helped you. We could have tried to save her together.”

“You’re lying.” Roman’s voice sounded strangled. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Let me help you now,” Ash said, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned forward and—slowly, slowly, his eyes holding Roman’s—he placed his own gun on the ground between them. “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We should be fighting him.”