"Shandra?" I shouted, slamming from the car. "Shandra!"

"Here."

Standing in a shadow with her arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly.

I reached for her elbow to lead her to the SUV and she flinched away.

"Take the cardboard," she said, scuffing her feet against the box I’d flattened. "Onto the seat in the car, so I don’t touch anything."

"Will that help?"

For a long lost moment, she didn't answer. Then she said, "No."

I crammed the cardboard onto the passenger seat and she climbed inside and fastened the seatbelt with shaking hands. She looked rough, but she also looked like she didn't want to talk about it.

So I drove through Portland to the highway. Five minutes later, heading south, Shandra exhaled.

"This is okay," she said.

"You’re not feeing anything?"

"The car’s new, and the owners are … bland."

"Always steal from boring people," I said. "That’s my policy."

She started to speak, then stared out her window.

"What happened?" I finally asked.

For two miles, she didn’t say anything. "After you told me to go to Miss Corene’s, I cut through the woods and I started thinking …"

She trailed off, into a dense, sticky sort of silence.

"Thinking what?" I asked.

"Not thinking," she said.

"Not thinking what?" I asked.

"More just feeling. Who they were, what they wanted. They wanted Dewitt, they know he’s different." She paused again. "They call us ‘actives,’ people changed in after the Seventeen Seconds. People who aren't—normal. And people like us. You and me? Who can do things, stranger things than just peeing ammonia or growing fingernails? They call us 'longshots.'"

"There are others? Off the Rock?"

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"A few."

"How many? Where?"

"I don't know." She started chewing on her lip. "Hundreds? I’m not sure. I can't tell. I think … they’re holding some people prisoner. Some actives, I mean."

"Where?"

"A basement, maybe."

"How do they know about Dewey?"

"I’m not sure!" she snapped. "I’m not sure, I don’t know."

"What do they want with him?"

"They want to strip him for parts," she said, staring toward the dawn.

Goosebumps rose on my arms. "So instead of going to Miss Corene’s, you cut through the woods?"

"Dewitt’s got that gift," she said, tracing her reflection in the window with a fingertip. "He knows how to be happy."

"Yeah, he does."

"I don't," she said. "I have the opposite."

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

Her shoulders started trembling, like she was crying without crying, the way girls sometimes did. "I … I went to the boat. And I told those men to take me instead of Dewey."

I winced. That was a bad idea, even for Shandra. "So they took both of you?"

"They laughed and one grabbed my arm and ..." she shuddered.

"Where are they going?" I asked, partly to distract her. "Where in New Park?"

She took an unsteady breath. "I don’t know, I saw a jumble. Images. Flashes. An office that looked like … like Versailles. You know, all fancy and French. A sun with a spear. A street sign. Dane Street, I think."

"Dane Street," I said. "We can find that."

Three big rigs roared past.

A stretch of empty highway.

A toll and a bridge.

"There was a man at the fort … " she said. "A big man with a scarred face, and a woman who looked like a librarian. The woman, I don’t know what she is--but the man controls people."

"What do you mean?"

"Like puppets. He pulls a string, they dance."

"Like mind control?"

"Like those Coast Guard guys at the fort."

"No way. How?"

"How? How you, Lark?" She gave a little choked sob. "How me?"

"What do they want with Dewey?"

"They want his power. I don’t know, that’s all I saw. I can’t, oh God--I can’t--"

She made a keening sound and I shut up. I knew the sound of Shandra at the limits of her endurance, so I didn’t push her. Life had pushed her too far already. Anyway, I already knew the first step. Find Dane Street, find the office that looked like Versailles or the, the sun with the spear.

A silent hour later, we stopped at a gas station for food and water and a Manattan street map. I didn't miss smartphones on the island, but I was missing one now. Shandra waited in the car while I paid with my head lowered and my hood raised.

When I got back, she was in the driver’s seat. "What are you doing?" I asked.

She showed me one of her rare smiles. "You drive like an old lady."

"What are you talking about?"

"You drive like you’re in a funeral procession."

"That is so not true."

"And you’re the dead guy."

"Fine." I got into the passenger side. "You drive."

"Lark."

"Yeah?"

"You remembered."

I tossed the bag of Skittles onto the dashboard. "Sure."

She'd always loved Skittles, ever since we were little. She reached for the bag, then paused.

"I took it from the middle of the row," I assured her. "There shouldn’t be anyone on that but me, and you already know all my secrets."

"Yeah."

"And you love me anyway." I unfolded the map as she pulled onto the highway, and missed her blushing a furious red. I checked the street index and said, "There’s no Dane Street in Manattan."

"Dine Street? Dana Street?"

I checked. "No."

"We’ll think of something." She didn’t look at me. "Put your seat back. You need rest."

"Are you kidding? I’m not going to sleep for a month."

When I woke, we were a mile from the Cross Bronx Expressway.