It played into how I walked, how I organized my thoughts.

I could remember going home after my first official arrest. Bad guy beaten, caught, delivered to authorities. Everything official, with my mom attending. I’d walked in the door, and my mother had told my dad that I’d had two firsts. My first arrest, my first war wound—a cut to my forehead, already stitched up. She’d used her fingers to move my hair, to show my dad.

He’d looked very tired as he bent down, kissed the top of my head.

He’d offered me cookies and milk and I’d rolled my eyes, even though I’d really wanted the cookies.

I wasn’t sure at all about why or if the cookies played into things, but I did remember how I’d stood straighter, how I’d felt taller, more focused.

That was the feeling I wanted to capture, as I walked down the train car, entered the next, walked down that train car, and then entered the car I’d been in before going after my fan.

Tristan was in my seat, talking to Ashley. Ashley was tense. She didn’t look as if she’d calmed down in my absence.

Tristan wore a black jacket over a red t-shirt in a material that looked like it was meant to have sweat wick off of it. He’d painted his hair again and the color reached to the roots.

He moved over from the seat as I approached, leaving the one between him and Ashley empty. Ashley didn’t move, her eyes hidden by the sunglasses she wore. A thin beam of light swept through the length of the train car. Not as pronounced an effect as it had been earlier, with the train slightly lower to the ground, the train at a different angle.

“I’ve come to believe you’re more deluded than the rest of us,” Ashley said, as I took the seat. “Thinking any of that matters.”

“Maybe,” I said. I fiddled with my phone, typing in the email.

“Did you tell her?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I got her email, and I flew after the train. Hi Tristan.”

“From what I gather, you have a fan, and you and Ashley had a disagreement,” Tristan said.

“Yeah,” I said, still typing. “Any word on Rain?”

“Scared as shit but safe.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Is he going to be okay?”

“No idea. But if they go after him, we’re not in a position to do anything. I’d like to ask Houndstooth for advice, see what resources we can tap.”

I nodded.

I paged through the phone, the email entered, and found myself at the home screen for the mail.

You have 55 unread emails.

I checked nobody was in earshot. There were people in the chairs just beside Tristan’s seat, but they had headphones on. I figured we were pretty safe.