After the delivery guy came to the hotel room door, I wrapped myself in the blanket--wearing just my underwear again, which was becoming a habit--and ate a medium pizza with marinated chicken and plum tomatoes. Then I drank a half-gallon of milk. And after that I was still hungry, because the orbs burned a lot of energy, and I’d never used them this much before.

"Next time," I told Rachel, "I’m getting the pie with buffalo wings and blue cheese." There were pizzas in the city that I’d never even imagined.

She didn’t answer. She probably hadn't heard, sitting at the kitchen table poring over reports and talking on her phone.

I was halfway through the Caesar salad when another knock sounded and Rachel opened the door for a youngish guy in a suit. Probably an expensive suit. He looked the type, clean-shaven and clear-eyed. Rachel glanced at him, then turned away, still talking on the phone.

The guy smiled at me. "You must be Lark."

"Yeah, hi." I wiped dressing from my mouth. "You’re Umlaut?"

"I'm Jason."

"Oh! Sorry, she calls you--"

"I know." He showed me an oversized shopping bag. "This is for you."

I thanked him and brought the bag into the bathroom. I took a shower, careful of my bandages, then changed. Jeans and boxer briefs and socks, a T-shirt with an owl design and a sort of upscale khaki hoodie. Everything fit perfectly. I didn’t even need the black leather belt with the clunky rattlesnake buckle, which I suspected was too hip for me anyway. And the jeans were a brand I’d never seen before. Usually I wore Carhartt.

I looked at the blocky sunglasses and--I shit you not--the fedora with the design of a ‘50s pinup girl, and shrugged. Maybe Umlaut knew what he was doing. At least I wouldn’t look like me anymore. I ate a few painkillers then returned to the bedroom.

When Rachel saw me, she cocked an eyebrow. "Good lord. What is that?"

"He looks urban now," Umlaut told her.

"Guys wear that kind of thing? In public?"

"Sure," he said. "Where've you been?" Then he flushed red, hearing what he'd just said.

"I like it," I told them, popping the fedora onto my head. "It's like a disguise."

"Yeah," she said. "You barely look human."

I sat at the table and pronged some grilled chicken from the salad. "I need to make a call."

"As soon as we’re finished here," Rachel said.

"Finished with what?"

"You telling me everything."

I swigged from the water bottle. I wasn't sure how much I wanted to say.

"We know about Little Big Rock," she said.

"Oh," I said.

"You’re not in the system," Rachel told me, "but Dewitt and Madeline Daugherty were easy to find."

"Oh," I repeated, in my clever way. I toyed with leaf of parmesan-dusted romaine. The only reason I’d been holding back was to protect the Rock. Once they knew that, they knew everything. "Where do I start? Um, there’s a B&B on the Rock, and these two guys, Sam and Ed, they spent a few days there. Hiking, ocean kayaking, y’know. Then Shandra--" I stopped. "Any word on Shandra?"

Rachel shook her head. "She’s gone, along with your friends."

"Oh. Anyway, she felt them, Sam and Ed. You understand? She felt them the way she feels things. And she told me they were hunting Dewitt."

I told them about searching Dewey’s apartment and the fight at the boat. About Fort Dolores and the helicopter. Maddie and the eyeglass boutique. I didn’t mention the Storm, though, or all the actives on the Rock; that wasn’t mine to tell.

When I finished, Jason said, "Why did they go and--"

"Wait," Rachel said. "Let me think."

She closed her eyes.

Jason and I watched.

Then I made the sign for a phone, holding my pinky to my mouth and my thumb to my ear, and Jason passed me his cell.

I stood by the window and called the Rock. "Trish, it’s me."

"Thank God," she breathed, then raised her voice, like she was making an announcement. "He’s alive."

I heard a relieved hubbub in the background, and tears sprung to my eyes.

"Are you okay?" Trish asked.

"I’m fine. How's Shandra and--and everywhere"

"They're halfway home. I heard they're okay, though. Everyone except Shandra. She's still unconscious. Lost all her hair, but at least she's breathing."

"She's ... she's braver than I can even imagine. She's--she's really something." I paused. "Did you, uh, hear about Dewitt?"

"We heard."

"Tell his parents--" I swallowed. "I don’t know. I’ll tell them myself." I pressed my palm to the cool glass of the window. "I could’ve saved him."

Trish didn't say anything.

"I could've saved him, Trish, but I stayed with Maddie instead. I chose her and I--I traded his life for nothing."

"Get over yourself," Trish said, her voice gentler than her words. "I didn’t save him either. What makes you so special?"

"I was there."

"Yeah, at least you were there. We didn’t even do that much. When Dewey needed us most, we were stuck on a rock three hundred miles away. So don’t give me the self-pity."

I smiled at my reflection. Not much of a smile, but still. "Yes, ma’am."

"When’re you coming home?"

"I’m not sure," I said. "PJ knows about the Rock."

"Who’s PJ?"

I told her the story. "He’s planning to visit after he finishes in the city."

"What’s this thing he’s doing tonight?"

"We're not sure. He’s got an army of suicide bombers."

"Hold on," she said, and I heard the muffled babble of conversation. A minute later, she returned. "Give me your number, we’re calling a meeting. I’ll ring you when we’re done."

I gave her the number then returned the phone to Jason and stood beside him, watching Rachel stick post-it notes to the wall, each one with a little scribble: construction site, Boone, Lark, island, PJ, Spandle, garage, Lark-vest, Maddie, Shooter 1, Shooter 2, Sniper, boat, helicopter, FAA, Shandra and two dozen more.

She posted the last note then stood, eying the wall. Completely unmoving except for her gaze drawing lines between the notes, making connections--then rejecting them.

I opened cupboards in the kitchen nook until I found a box of capellini, a garlic bud, and a plastic container of cherry tomatoes. I heated olive oil in a skillet, and started chopping the garlic, slowly and quietly so I wouldn't bug Rachel.

"Would you stop that?" she told me, still staring at the wall.

"I’m trying to be quiet."

"That’s what I mean. Just chop."

"Oh. Do you want some?"

"What? No." She tugged at her earring. "This doesn’t sound like Boone. It's too sloppy. Leaving a dead man behind, kidnapping Dewitt like that? That's not him. Now PJ, on the other hand, is sloppy. And he doesn’t quite understand why killing people is wrong."

"Does your father?" Jason said.

"He understands," she said. "He just doesn’t care."

I tossed the cherry tomatoes into the hot oil. "That’s even worse."

"Maybe." Rachel considered one of the sticky notes. "I need to find the trigger candy."

"The what?" I asked.

"That's what my father calls a sweet shot, a bullseye. He said you shouldn't waste your ammunition. Just wait for the shot that matters, the silver bullet that ends the fight. The killshot. That's what he's after."

I didn't say anything for a second, wondering if she was talking about herself. About standing behind her father and raising the gun and pulling the trigger. The killshot.

Then I said, "So you're trying to figure what matters to him? Why he's taking this shot?"

"Yeah, what's he after? Most of this isn’t Boone--except for the parts that are. The soldiers, the boat, the helicopter. Those are his. But this isn't how he does things."

"Which means PJ’s in charge," Jason said. "He took over."

"That makes sense, unless you know my father. He’d crush PJ like a--something easy to crush."

"A bug," Jason said, at the same time that I said, "A paper cup."

"Like an egg," she said. "PJ’s getting stronger, but I don’t see him beating Boone."

"He turned a dozen people into zombies," I said. "Just driving past that restaurant."

She frowned. "What does he want? One bomber, fine, two bombers. But a hundred, a thousand? That’s got to be PJ. Except why?"

The tomatoes sizzled and popped, the scent of raw garlic filled the room. I covered the skillet and gave a brisk shake.

"Are we sure this is happening tonight?" Jason asked.

"According to Shandra," I told him, then asked Rachel, "Who beat you up?"

"I don't know. Not Boone. Maybe one of his competitors."

"He has competitors? Are you kidding me?"

She shrugged. "That's capitalism for you."

"Maybe it was just someone trying to scare you off," Jason told her.

"Which narrows it down," I said, "to someone who's never met her."

"Doesn’t matter now," she said. "Boone and PJ … What’s PJ after? Power. Turning Manattan into a war zone doesn’t make sense. Kill Dewitt for his powers, fine. Kill Lark and Shandra. But ordinary people? What does that buy him?"

I slid the pasta into the boiling water, and added the garlic and oregano to the tomatoes. And just like that, the room smelled like home.

Until Jason checked his phone, and said, "There’s been another bombing."