It was too messed up, what with the census device still vivid in his brain, far too recent. Tom preferred not to feel profoundly indebted to him. It was easier to avoid him altogether.

Now he stood there awkwardly as Blackburn plopped a case of supplies out on his table and beckoned Tom over. Tom had never seen inside Blackburn’s quarters before and it wasn’t what he would’ve expected at all. The man had been at the Pentagonal Spire almost four years now, but the walls and shelves were bare, the only real furniture a table, some chairs, and a TV. There was a scraggly, undecorated Christmas tree Blackburn obviously hadn’t gotten around to taking down yet.

“Your fake tree looks to be on its deathbed,” Tom told Blackburn.

“It’s older than you are, Raines. Show some respect.”

Older than he was . . .

Tom realized it then—Blackburn must’ve had it before. Before he went crazy, before he blew up his kids, before his wife clawed his face and left him. Tom tore his gaze away and saw something that made him feel even worse.

He and Vik had been at the Pentagon City Mall with Wyatt and Yuri while she looked for Blackburn’s Christmas present. Wyatt was a terrible gift giver, since she never guessed even remotely correctly what people wanted, and Tom and Vik didn’t help matters because it amused them to steer her clear of the nice pen Yuri suggested and toward a brilliant purple, lavender-scented candle that had little stars all over the base.

“Are you sure it’s not too girly?” Wyatt had asked them worriedly.

Tom and Vik had both kept straight faces as they nodded. Vik said, “Wyatt, all men like scented candles.”

“Yes. Scented candles are as manly as it gets,” Tom confirmed. “It’s the classic American Sunday: beer in hand, football on TV, and a scented candle burning nearby.”

“Not just in America. When I left my primary school, my father said, ‘Son, you are now a man,’ then he gave me a scented candle and told me how babies are made.” Vik fought to keep his lips from twitching. His voice was a bit strained as he pointed at the glass base. “Plus, the tiny stars will remind Blackburn of outer space. I think he’ll like that.”

That was good enough for Wyatt. She bought it for him. Unfortunately, this got them all scented candles for Christmas, but it had been worth it.

At the time.

Now Tom watched Blackburn rifle through a case in his bare apartment—that single, pathetic candle the only decoration in sight—and he felt like a scumbag. He still hadn’t even thanked him for Antarctica.

“Hey,” Tom tried. “Thanks for saving my life. And stuff.”