In the distance, a tall plume of smoke rises from the enemy air base.

“What has happened?” I ask Marie—the last words I am able to speak before consciousness finally fails me.

* * *

The nurses tell me that I am in a hospital in Bava. It does not look like a hospital—the walls are too clean, the ceiling is intact, and the lights do not flicker. I am in a single room, and it feels tiny and isolated compared to the rows of wounded I have seen in other hospitals. They claim it is a hospital for very important people, and that it is in the southeast corner of Bava where it was spared the worst of the bombing.

I do not know whether to believe them. I remember the overheard conversation between Paco and Marie, and the fight, and the bodies of my friends. I feel as if I cannot trust anything, even my own senses.

I do not feel like a very important person.

I am human again. My body is covered in cuts and bruises, and I have broken an arm and a wrist, but I seem to have avoided any permanent damage.

I have vague memories of being carried, then transported by car, then by plane, and once again by car. The nurses speak my language. They seem far too kind. I wonder if this is some kind of trick, and demand to see Selvie and Bellara. The nurses claim not to know either of those names.

I am too worn out, my body still weak from blood loss and starvation, to fight them. I sleep through the night, and wake again to daylight. A figure sits beside my bed, and at first I take him for a nurse.

I tell myself, upon a second glance, that my eyes are playing tricks on me. Rodrigo sits in a rickety wheelchair. His head and chest are wrapped in white bandages, and his arm is in a sling, but his eyes are open, staring at the pages of a book clutched in one hand.

I must make some kind of noise, because he turns toward me and his thin face lights up. “Teado!” he says. “They told me you were awake, but I did not dare to hope.”

I lick my lips, and try to remember what Bellara has told me about seeing through illusions. This is a trick. It has to be. Rodrigo was barely alive when I pulled him from Benny’s wreck. I reach out, and Rodrigo puts aside his book to take my hand in his, then kisses my knuckles. It sounds like Rodrigo. It feels like Rodrigo. It acts like Rodrigo.

“You’re alive?” is all I can manage.