“No. Hell no. Then I’d feel obligated to make conversation and shit,” Chris said. “It’s a sunny day, there’s a breeze, the weather is perfect. I’m going to sit outside and wait and then I’ll make my way back to the institution.”

“They won’t be bothered if you’re late for dinner?” I asked.

“So long as I’m there by lights out, they don’t care. They’ve got twenty staff and over a thousand kids in the building with dead or missing parents. I eat or I feed myself, I mostly do the chores I’m assigned, I’m there when I’m supposed to be. There’s lots of others who demand more attention than I do.”

“It sounds like the children at your institution are pretty vulnerable,” Sveta said. “Nobody paying attention to what they’re doing with their days. Any of you could be pressed into work or preyed on or you could end up disappearing, and nobody would know.”

“Not me,” Chris said. “They’d regret it if they tried with me. With triggers being a thing, they might regret it whoever they try it with.”

I was put in mind of my mom. “It doesn’t mean the damage isn’t done before powers come into the picture.”

“Yeah, well, I dunno,” Chris said. “I’m going to relax and wait until my vision comes back. If it takes too long or if I run into trouble, I’ve got another change I was wanting to make today. Keen Vigilance. Perception focused. It’ll give me a fresh set of eyes.”

“Okay,” I said.

The others got themselves sorted out. Rain, Sveta, and Tristan started their walk to the train station. Chris retreated toward the library.

Ashley remained by the sidewalk, drinking her water. She’d been dead quiet.

“You good?” I asked her.

“I was dead for years. I’ve been operated on, feeling every last movement of the scalpel, several times. This is nothing, so yeah, I’m good.”

She put a curious inflection on the word.

It was eerie to think of Bonesaw’s involvement in things. Her handling of Ashley here, how the Slaughterhouse Nine had got Blasto which had led to Fume Hood’s downward spiral. It made me think of Crawler, and it made me think of what had happened to my home town.

To my home, my living room shattered with monsters left lying in places where childhood memories were supposed to be. Monsters that had once been people, a few of them genuinely good and decent.

Heroes, even.

To my family. To the person who had once been closest to me.

“Right. Good to hear,” I said.

“We’re similar, I think,” she said.

I paused. I’d been taking a second to think about how I would gracefully exit. Now I was left to process what she’d said, and figure out how to gracefully answer that.