You can see most of Starling from the top of the Municipal Courthouse. She is beautiful by this light. The bay glitters gold in the west as the sun sinks into it, to the north the sleek towers of the CBD look carved from ruby, and to the east the white suspension bridge arcs away gracefully to the Glades. Rivers of white headlights and red taillights stream past in the streets below me. From up here, she looks busy and prosperous and peaceful.

And when did the city become she to me?

"Almost four months," McKenna Hall says at my side. "Where have you been?"

It takes a while to recover from a shattered tibia. I could have been back on my feet sooner, but the one time I asked for fast-acting tissue builders, I got a bunch of crossed arms and serious looks.

"Cool your jets," Mom said.

"Let SCPD shoulder the load for a while," Dad said.

"Give that leg a chance to heal properly," Dig said.

"If you go out there before you're ready and get yourself hurt again like a stupid, stubborn ass," Abby said, "I will wake you up with a rousing rendition of 'The Sound of Music' every morning until you're better."

So I healed up the slow way, which meant weeks on desk duty at Panoptic and sofa duty at home. Abby spent most of the summer keeping me company. Sometimes she and Tish played improv games in the living room until I laughed so hard I forgot my leg was on fire. Other times she curled up on the opposite end of the sofa with blank, half-lidded eyes and stared at nothing.

I shrug. "You had it handled."

"I wouldn't have turned down the help."

"You're not the little guy forced to go outside the system anymore. You are the system, Chief." I turn my head just enough to glimpse her face from beneath the shadow of the hood. "I half-expected you to tell me to fuck off."

She purses her lips. "The mayor and I had a serious discussion about tolerating vigilantism, the importance of the rule of law, and who watches the watchmen."

I nod. "He told you to bring me in."

"He did."

"And you're flipping him the bird and doing what you want?"

"You didn't see the look on his face when he said it. I know him from way back. Trust me, he's going to turn a blind eye."

I just barely bite down on a sarcastic, Wow, what a relief.

She pulls out her phone and drags up a mugshot. "How do you feel about mopping up the remains of the Starling Black Hand?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

She taps her phone to mine to transfer the data securely, and then she heads for the rooftop service door. Just before she slips through, she looks over her shoulder and cocks an eyebrow at me. "We thought you might have been killed that night in the riots," she says dispassionately. "A couple of gangs were claiming credit for it."

I've always wanted to use the line: "Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated."

"Your predecessors just disappeared one day too. Didn't call, didn't write. I never found out what happened to them."

"Why do you care?"

She looks at me steadily. She cares.

"One was killed in action." It's true, if misleading, and the pain is still sharp right up under my ribs. "The other retired."

She nods. "Did he get a happy ending? The retired one?"

I hardly see him these days. He is working seventy hour weeks as Starling's most controversial mayor since the guy who oversaw integration in the sixties. Panoptic disarmed a small bomb in his mailbox last month. His wife's debilitating headaches are more frequent than they've been in years, and his daughter cycles through anxiety and depression no matter how much money he throws at therapy and medication. He is mourning his brother, and his sister doesn't know who to be more pissed off at: Joseph Risdon for breaking her back and shooting her husband, Uncle Roy for buying her legs with his life, or God for letting it all happen.

"I'll be all right," she told me and Abby the night she moved into the downstairs guest bedroom. "I know how to do this."

"Do what?" Abby said.

"Lose people."

She and Dad go for walks after dinner, on the orders of the physical therapist who made house calls for me and her both. Any offer to accompany them is gently but firmly turned down. Dad carries her forearm crutches, but more often than not she makes it home with no more support than his arm to lean on. I don't know which of them needs this ritual more.

The retired Arrow has had kind of a shit year.

But last night he got home late, looking worn down, and he sank onto the sofa like he never wanted to get up again. "Come give me a hug," he told Abby, unashamed of needing one.

Within minutes he was passed out with her tucked under his arm, head tipped back, snoring faintly. I am not famous for my people skills or sensitivity, but even I could see the wistfulness on Tish's face when she looked at them.

Mom came down from her office just as Abby started to untangle herself. "I had a bet with myself. Will Oliver make it to an actual mattress tonight? Looks like I win." Then she made a moue, beckoned to Abby, and whispered in her ear. Abby bounded away upstairs and came rushing back down with a handful of tiny glass bottles.

It was a testament to how exhausted Dad was that he didn't even twitch when Mom and Abby eased off his shoes and socks, stifling giggles.

Next to me on the sofa, Tish leaned over and whispered. "Won't he be angry?"

"Oh, he'll try."

When he woke an hour later and caught sight of his brightly painted toenails, he did indeed try to be angry.

"You are both in so much trouble."

He tried very hard.

Captain Hall tilts her head at me, one hand on the doorknob.

I smile at the gravel. "As close as we get."

When the door closes behind her, someone else steps out of the lengthening shadows. "Are you sure you're ready to get back out there?"

"The leg's fine."

"Yes," Dad says, "but are you ready?"

I step up on the ledge of the rooftop to look out over the sea of lights below. Dad steps up next to me, tie fluttering in the warm August wind.

"I'm the Arrow. You're the mayor. We've got a DA and a police chief on our side." We're loaded for bear, is what I'm saying. So let us march on our enemies, strike fear into their hearts, and drink our fill of their bitter tears or whatever.

I should know better. Stronger women and wiser men than I have been fighting for Starling's soul since before I was born, and though they win battle after battle, there is never an end to the war. They give everything - their sweat and blood, their reputations, their lives - and the city claws it up greedily without a word of thanks. Thirty years after the Arrow first picked up a bow, she still needs someone to stand high atop a wall, keeping watch over the darkness.

But I can't help hoping: "Maybe we can save her."

Dad shakes his head, smiling softly. "Probably not."

The shadows deepen in the streets below, and the southerly tugs at Dad's suit jacket and tries to blow the hood back onto my shoulders. It flutters around my ears, but it stays up.

I look over at Dad. "Guess we're too dumb not to try."

His smile broadens, and he lays a hand on my shoulder.

For a long time, we stand just a few yards above the words carved deep into the pediment, leaning into the oncoming wind.

We watch night fall over our city.