"Well, then we've got to end the game," Peter said.

Francis looked up. "We have to not do what he expects us to do because he knows. I don't know how or why, but he knows."

Peter took a deep breath, and for a moment or two, all three of them were quiet, as they chewed over what Francis had said. Peter didn't think that the moment was right, but he could think of no other time that might be more appropriate, and any further delay might make things worse. "I don't have much time left," he said quietly. "Sometime in the next few days, I'm going to be shipped out of here. Forever."

Chapter 25

I rolled over on the floor and felt the hardwood surface flush against my cheek as I fought against the sobs that captured my entire body. All of my life I had spiraled from one loneliness to another, and simply recalling the instant in time that I heard Peter the Fireman say that he would be leaving me by myself in Western State plummeted me into a black despair that mimicked the one I felt in the Amherst Building all those years ago. I suppose I had known from the opening second when we had met, that I was bound to be left behind, but still, hearing it firsthand was like a blow to the chest. There are some deep sadnesses that never leave one's heart no matter how many hours slide by, and this was one of those. Writing the words that Peter spoke that afternoon rekindled all the feelings of despair that had been hidden for so many years by so many drugs and treatment plans and therapeutic sessions. My hurt erupted, filling me with a deep gray volcanic ash.

I wailed like a starving child, abandoned in the darkness. My body convulsed with the shock of recollection. Tossed down on the cold floor like a shipwrecked sailor thrown up on a distant, strange shore, I gave into the utter futility of my history and let every failure and flaw find voice in one wracking sob after another, until, exhausted, I finally quieted.

When the awful silence of fatigue filled the air around me, I could just make out a distant mocking laugh, retreating into the shadows. The Angel still hovered nearby, enjoying every filigree of pain I experienced.

I lifted my head and snarled. He remained close. Close enough to touch me, just far enough so that I couldn't grasp him. I could sense the distance narrowing, closing by millimeters with each passing second. That was his style. Hide. Evade. Manipulate. Control. Then, when the moment was ripe, he would pounce. The difference was, this time I was the target.

I gathered myself and struggled to my feet, wiping a sleeve across my tear-stained face. Pivoting about, I searched the room.

"Here, C-Bird. Over by the wall"

But it wasn't the Angel's hissing, murderous voice, it was Peter's.

I spun to the sound. He was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall of writing.

He looked tired. No, that's not quite right. He had traveled beyond exhaustion, into a different realm altogether. His jumpsuit was streaked with soot and dirt, and I could see grime on his face, scarred by streaks of sweat. There were rips in his clothes, and his heavy brown work boots were ridged with mud, leaves, and pine needles. He toyed with his silver steel helmet, flipping it back and forth in his hands, spinning it like a child's top. After a moment or two, as he seemed to regain a little bit of his strength and composure, he finally took the helmet and lifted it above his head, tapping it against the wall.

"You're getting there," he said. "I guess I really didn't understand how terrified you must have been of the Angel. I could never see coming what you did. It's a good thing one of us was crazy. Or just crazy enough."

Even with all the filth that covered him, Peter's insouciance still clawed through. I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Still, I bent down, crouching just across from him, close enough so that I could reach out and touch him, but I didn't.

"He's here now," I whispered, cautiously. "He's listening to us."

"I know," Peter said. "The hell with him."

"He's come for me, this time. Like he promised back then."

"I know," Peter repeated.

"I need your help, Peter," I said. "I don't know how to fight him."

"You didn't know before, but you figured it out," Peter replied. A little bit of his wide, white grin penetrated past his exhaustion, past all the collected dirt and debris.

"It's different now," I said. "Before it was…" I hesitated.

"Real?" Peter asked.

I nodded.

"And this isn't?"

I didn't know what to reply.

"Will you help me?" I asked again.

"I don't know that you really need it. But I'll try to do what I can." Peter wearily gathered himself and slowly rose to his feet. For the first time, I noticed that the backs of his hands were charred raw and bloody. The skin seemed to be loosened, for it hung in flaps from the bones and tendons. He must have seen where my eyes went, because he glanced down and then shrugged. "Can't do anything about that," he said. "It gets worse."

I didn't ask him to elaborate, because I thought I understood. In the momentary silence that followed, he turned and peered at the wall. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, C-Bird," he said quietly. "I knew it would hurt you, but I didn't really understand how harsh it would be."

"I was alone," I said. "I wonder sometimes if there's anything worse in the whole world."

Peter smiled. "There are worse things," he said. "But I understand what you mean. I didn't have a choice though, did I?"

Now it was my turn to shake my head. "No. You had to do what they wanted. And that was your only chance. I understand that."

"It didn't exactly turn out great for me," Peter said. He laughed, as if this was a joke, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, C-Bird. I didn't want to leave you, but if I'd stayed…"

"You would have ended up like me. I understand that, Peter," I said.

"But I was there for the most important part," he said.

I nodded.

"And so was Lucy."

Again, I nodded my head in agreement.

"So, we all paid a price, didn't we?" he asked.

In that second, I heard a long, wolflike howl. It was an unearthly sound, filled with anger and revenge. The Angel.

Peter heard it, too. But it didn't frighten him the way it did me.

"He's coming for me, Peter," I whispered. "I don't know if I can handle him alone."

"True enough," Peter replied. "One never can be sure of everything. But you know him, C-Bird. You know his strengths; you know his limitations. You knew it all, and it was what we needed once before, wasn't it?" He looked over at the wall of writing. "Put it down, C-Bird. All the questions. And all the answers."

He stepped back, as if making a path for me to the next blank spot. I took a deep breath and moved forward. I wasn't aware that Peter faded from my side, as I picked up the stub of pencil, but I did note that the chill from the Angel's breath frosted the room around me, so that I shivered as I wrote:

By the end of the day, Francis was overcome by the sensation that things were taking place that all made sense, but that he couldn't quite see the shape of the stage… By the end of the day, Francis was overcome by the sensation that things were taking place that all made sense, but that he couldn't quite see the shape of the stage. The jumble of ideas that coursed through his imagination were still puzzling to him, complicated no end by the resurgence of his own voices that seemed to be as divisive and as doubting as they had ever been. They formed a knot of confusion within his head, shouting conflicting suggestions and demands, urging him to flee, to hide, to fight back, so frequently and fiercely that he could barely hear other conversations. He still held the belief that everything would become obvious if he simply looked at it through the right microscope.