I took off. My forcefield absorbed the brunt of the cold wind.

Community center. I had to assume it was the nicest looking building. I itched to go check in on Sveta, Tristan, and Rain, but the others seemed protective of the trio. I had an ugly feeling that it was serious—that Tristan was worn out or at a breaking point, and that it was the most trusted, Tristan-familiar people only.

If there was anything else, and if I really needed to know, it was possible Tattletale would fill me in.

The stable hadn’t quite been warm, and I was feeling a chill, like the furnace that burned at the center of me wasn’t enough to keep my extremities comfortably warm. It was nice to step indoors, and feel actual warmth, from a stove in the corner.

The problem was that it was the wrong building. This would be the church.

A woman in a winter jacket put a finger to her lips as I entered. There were people at the front who were praying, it seemed. Before I could turn around, she put a hand out to touch my shoulder. She indicated the back pews of the church.

Commandeered by a group of people from the Patrol. They’d unpacked what looked like five first aid kits, to get necessary components. Things had been redistributed, so that a given box had one, two, or three specific types of thing in it.

Fuck, I supposed I had to.

I limped a few steps before floating the rest of the way with a cramping foot. I took my seat, and a young lady who was probably three years younger than me began assessing the situation at my side.

I was partway through the process of getting patched up when a tall, late-thirties guy with a red-blond mustache and swept-back hair approached, carrying two first aid kits that looked like a different make and model than the ones the Patrol here was currently using. He gave me a long, searching look.

It took me a second to connect the face to the mask.

“Want company? I could take over, even,” he told me, his voice soft.

Weird. Weird weird weird.

“Sure, I guess.”

Even if it felt vaguely… incestuous to have someone I was related to and yet barely knew touching sensitive wounds and bare skin.

The girl from the Patrol vacated the pew. The man, my Uncle Mike, took a seat in her spot.

“I hoped to run into you and I dreaded the idea of running into you,” he said, quiet. “I don’t mean any offense when I say that.”

“Nope,” I told him. “I get it.”

“You were so young when I last saw you. And now you’re… eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“That was my next guess,” he said, smiling. “This looks like it smarts.”

“I could tell you stories of my war wounds,” I said.

“I’ve had a few of my own.”