“Saying you’re sorry for what you said last night doesn’t mean shit if you’re only saying it because you’re realizing it’s not one turn each, then we’re all done,” Jonathan growled.

“That’s not it. I’m dealing with stuff in the real world,” the Fallen boy said.

“Boo fucking hoo,” Jonathan growled.

“He didn’t even say ‘sorry’,” Ryan added.

“You figured out you can trade these,” the Fallen boy was quick to say, eager to offer something. “Take them. Use them. I’m not getting any use of them where I am.”

“No,” Jonathan said.

Ryan held up a hand, indicating for Jonathan to hold off.

“You want them?” the Fallen boy asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan said. It’s good to figure out as much about this as I can. I only barely managed to guide the dream, recognizing that I couldn’t read and leapfrogging into muddling the voices. Not the same as a typical dream.

The Fallen boy tossed the metal slats over the dial in the center of the room.

“The less power you have, the more likely it is that anyone who picks a fight with you manages to off you.”

“Fuck you,” the Fallen boy said.

The slats clacked as Ryan gathered them. “Given the company you keep, I won’t rule anything out.”

The boy made a face, then stomped back to his chair, seating himself.

There wasn’t much communication to be had. He investigated his space from corner to corner, then studied the others. Jonathan’s fallen shelves. Nicole’s toy room. When they looked uncomfortable with his staring, he changed targets.

He was staring at the black fifth of the room when he felt the lurching transition from sleeping to waking. He touched his coins and the three metal slats he’d been given.

The light was bright, and his head swam as he stood. The fragments and coins he’d had in his hand were gone now.

But he had the power—he could feel it running into the floor, as he pushed the power out toward his feet. He felt it conduct into his bed, then his desk, as he touched them, struggling feebly to find a path to travel.

His eye fell on his phone. It was by his new workshop-in-progress, and it was mostly untouched. The last unread messages hadn’t changed in two days. One from Amanda. One from Lloyd.

In his silence, hearing word from his mother about where he’d been going last, they’d concluded that he had died.

That, until this whole situation was resolved, would be for the best. Except—

His hand touched his heart.

It hurt. Upset welled in him, that upset finding new angles and sides as thoughts of how they might feel at his ‘death’ raced through his mind.

He stood, shaky, and the emotions warred in him.