Erika picked up on the final ring.

"Verse 8:14," Haru said at once. "The one where Ho-oh grants his servants their freedom. Remember? And they all take different paths. Which one do you think was right?"

The ensuing pause was deep enough to drown in. " . . . I was in a meeting, Haru."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He swallowed, shifting his grip on the nav. The metal was slick in his hands. "Never mind, then. I—it's not important."

"Obviously it is, or you wouldn't have called," Erika snapped. "You don't call me first thing in the morning on a Monday about unimportant things."

"I just wanted to know which one you thought was right," Haru said meekly.

His sister let out a long sigh. When she spoke, he could tell he was being humored. "Your question doesn't make any sense. All three were right, of course. Even grade-schoolers get this. Entei goes into the volcano because he's a fire-type. Raikou goes up to the heavens because he's an electric-type. Suicune's a water-type, so she goes into the sea. They each go where they belong. A place for everything, and everything in its place. It's basically the ancients' version of a typing chart."

When he said nothing, her tone gentled. "Look, I know you must be stressed with this new internship. I'm swamped right now, but let's talk this weekend, before the family call. It probably all seems huge and overwhelming now, but that's normal. You've got a new path, and the first steps are always hard, but you're a tough kid, Haru. Always were. I remember when we moved—I was bawling my eyes out, throwing a tantrum every evening, but you just perched there like a noctowl and didn't say a word. You're going to get through this too."

"Okay," Haru said, shutting his eyes. "Erika?"

"Yes?"

"You've always been a good big sister. I know I don't always say what I'm feeling when I should but I want you to know that I lo—"

"Oh, Haru. I know. Chin up, okay? We'll talk on Saturday. Now, listen, I really have to go."

The nav beeped twice, shrilly. She'd ended the call. He lowered the device slowly from his ear and turned it over in his hands, his gaze fixed on nothing.

It's not her fault she was born sightless.

"Haru?" Maliki's voice wafted in from the hallway. "Are you ready now?"

"I'm ready," he said, and stood.

The rain had begun sometime in the early hours of the morning, and though it had lessened, it had not subsided. Mauville was gray and shuttered. Passersby wore dark rain slickers, walked with their heads bowed, but Haru pushed back his hood and let the rain tingle against his skin. Expanding puddles refracted the street lights—candle-orange, the light skated up buildings, down the street. It was the kind of weather that washed the world clean.

The rain had chased the gardeners from Route 117, and in their absence, the route was transformed. Docile trees, trimmed into submission, flared out with jade leaves; flowers reared and swelled in the blue-wet air. Between carefully spaced beds, Haru spotted surges of determined green. The volbeat and illumise had taken shelter deep within the trees, but the ponds teemed with activity. Surskit glided lazily; merrill bobbed on the water, their skin sleek and azure.

Haru and Maliki walked slowly, pausing at intervals for Haru to call out. A few oddish watched their progression curiously from the ground. Their fronds were fully extended, luxuriating in the rich wetness of the soil.

They stopped beneath a towering tree with a crown so thick that the foliage growing at its base remained dry despite the rain. Very little sunlight penetrated the branches, but when Haru looked up he saw the flickering tail-lights of volbeat and illumise. It was like staring into a private galaxy.

This time, when he called out, a thin screech answered him. A familiar shadow split from the darkness.

"Atalanta," he said hoarsely. Standing in the tree's musty dark, he tried to know himself. Had he hoped that she would answer or had he feared it? But all he knew was that he had called her, and she had come.

Out in the light, her yellow body shone against the charcoal sky like a polished coin. Her eyes had a healthy sheen. Her wingbeats were firm. He tallied the signs up in his mind, these signs that she had thrived here.

"I don't have a right," he insisted. "But I—it's not me who needs help but it's my fault and so it's mine. I need help. You don't have to give it."

She stared at him for what must have been hundreds of her rapid wingbeats, then buzzed out of sight.

Gone.

Relief surged over him; he almost buckled. He'd asked and she'd refused and it was over. He could leave this place knowing that there was one life, at least, that he had touched for the better.

But as Haru turned away, he felt pincers clench around his hair. Atalanta's body settled on his head, the hairs of her abdomen brushing against his neck. Haru went still.

It was the answer he had come for—and not, Haru knew now, the answer he had wanted.

Route 118's ferry roared up to the stop almost twenty minutes late. Haru had been counting. He had watched the clock, witnessed as the hour hand crossed the narrow border between eight and nine. It was Monday morning, and Haru was ten minutes late for the first real job of his life.

He wondered if they had noticed yet. Maybe in a few minutes someone would try to ring his nav, now a useless sculpture of iron and aluminum on the ocean floor. Maybe, they wouldn't notice for days.

The rain had lapsed into an off-and-on drizzle, but under the ferry the sea still pranced and spun in whirls of steely blue. Haru sat next to Maliki on the upper-deck and closed his eyes. As the boat charged forward, a feeling of unreality swept over him.

Surely there was some other Haru who had opened his eyes at 6:00 am, even though the rain-soaked sky was dark. He'd said his morning prayers alone in the prayer room, soothed by the quiet stillness of the space. Still, his stomach had been too unsettled to eat more than a little rice and half an egg—he'd stared at the uneaten yolk for ten minutes before accepting his stomach's refusal and murmuring another prayer for the wasting of good food. He'd reserved an hour for the commute, even though the shuttle from Mauville was quick and timely, so he'd arrived twenty minutes early and then stood outside the lab for another five minutes, wondering if he was far too early or if in fact he wasn't early enough.

Yes, some other Haru had done all that. Right now someone was giving him an official tour, more in-depth than Professor Ogletree's cursory showing. He was meeting the other interns, listening to the debrief from the expedition that had kept the main research teams out in the desert so long, perched against a lab table and smiling awkwardly as the research team laughed over in-jokes he lacked the context to parse. It all played out in his mind with bizarre clarity.

Maybe it was reality, and everything around him—the bob of the ferry, the clean wet air, the pomeg scent off Maliki's conditioner—maybe that was the waking dream.

Every so often when a nincada evolved, it left something behind. That husk didn't breathe and its wings didn't beat, yet somehow it still moved, stiff and inexorable. No one had managed a satisfactory explanation for it. How could that thing be called a ghost when it lived in parallel with its own life? Something pushed it forward. Somewhere inside that hollow husk a desire must burn brightly enough to mock every law of vitality and motion.

A living being and an empty husk. Haru opened his eyes and looked out at the rapidly-approaching canopy of Route 119. He wondered how anybody thought they could tell which was which.

Before they entered the ranger's station, he touched Maliki lightly on the shoulder and said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She was silent for long enough that he began to doubt. When she answered, she spoke in the hushed tone of someone imparting a secret. "I'm not sure. I never really am, because the only thing that is completely sure in this world is Mew's mercy, and that comes at the end. If I only acted when I was sure, Haru, I'd never do anything at all. Would you?"

He remembered . . . he remembered a voice in the rain, but the more he reached for that memory, the more elusive it seemed, like trying to stopper the wind. Perhaps he hadn't heard anything that day except the guilty dictates of his heart.

Maliki was right. It didn't change what he had to do now.

Haru pushed open the door and stepped inside the station. For a moment, everything seemed so familiar that he had to touch his hand to his empty belt to convince himself that time hadn't rewound. But the ranger on duty today was a man in the last gasp of middle age. He was stooped and wiry, and his face had formed into a deep scowl as he regarded the tween trainers before him.

"Licenses," he snapped, cutting off their chatter. He held each ID card close to his face as if hoping to uncover a fatal flaw. Haru and Maliki exchanged a quick uneasy look. When the ranger finished the usual cautionary speech and the trainers scurried away, they shuffled forward.

"Licenses," the ranger said in monotone.

"Sir," Maliki began brightly, "we're with the Mauville Sun. We were hoping we could ask you a few questions."

"No. I don't talk to reporters."

Emphasizing his refusal, the ranger spun around in his chair and began to squint fixedly at something on his computer screen.

"It's about the Category III Nuisance Tropius. The one apprehended yesterday. Were you part of the team that captured it?"

"No," the ranger said again, more sharply this time, and he glared at them like an affronted swellow. "There was a press statement. Go track it down instead of pestering me."

"The statement lacked some details." Maliki stood her ground. "Our readers have a right to know how the League will handle this feral tropius, which has already attacked once—"

"The damn thing's not feral!" The ranger drew himself up. He wasn't a very tall man, even without the stoop, but his dark eyes had an angry gleam. "Some fool trainer released it, another fool trainer poked it in the side with a stick and spent a few days in the hospital for his trouble. Apparently that's all it takes these days to earn a death sentence. And no, you can't quote that."

"It's to be put down, then," Maliki said, still with the same unbearable steadiness. Haru clasped his hands behind his back before the ranger could notice their trembling. "Thank you for confirming that. When will this occur?"

Last night. Early this morning. It's already happened, it's over with and done. Haru marshaled the responses in his mind, as if by thinking them first he could preempt reality.

The ranger shrugged. "Guess I'll find out when the euthenasia team drops by."

"Here?!"

The ranger's gaze swung to Haru, who realized that the question had burst like a sonic boom from his own mouth. His bangs overhung his forehead and his eyes were shielded by the clunky plastic spectacles that Maliki had conjured up for him, but he felt completely naked. It seemed impossible that anyone could look at him and not see the tonic of guilt and hope frothing in his gut.

"Yes, here," the ranger said shortly.

"Can we—" Haru had no idea how to end his sentence.

Maliki saved him. "A picture would be of great interest to our readers."

"Corpse-chasers." The ranger sank back into his chair, eyeing them with fresh disdain. "How much?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How much would a picture be worth to your precious readers?"

Haru understood first. He thought of the wad of 10,000 yen notes in his pack—his full savings, carefully tucked away in a waterproof pouch—and didn't hesitate. The station was silent except for the groan of the heating pipes as he pulled out two fresh notes and laid them on the table. It was too much, he knew. Far too much for a half-rate newspaper's bribe.

But the ranger slipped the cash into his pocket without comment. "One picture. That's all you get."

They followed him behind his desk like children on a school trip, through a cramped break room into a windowless chamber. The only source of light was a grumpig slouched in a bean bag chair—the black jewel on its belly pulsed purple.

Next to it, enveloped by that same purple glow, was Heconilia.

Haru froze. Only Maliki's discreet nudge got him over the threshold.

Heconilia had never once looked small. Wherever she went, she took up space—her wings spreading out, her neck arching and twisting, always searching, always curious. Now her wings lay limp against her back and her bare neck was curled close to her body. The purple light lent her green skin a sickly cast. When they approached, she didn't stir.

"We're not set up for this," the ranger said, filling the silence. His gaze was a little askew, as if reluctant to look too long at the room's central attraction. "It's a trainer's pokemon, so we can't capture it without an override ball, and the League always takes their sweet time processing our requisitions for those. Jun's getting tired. She didn't sign up to be a jailor."

"You didn't either," Haru said. In his peripheral vision, he saw Maliki's head jerk in a sharp negating gesture, but he had to try. He took a small step forward. "She's not violent. She's not feral. She's not a nuisance. She acted in defense of her herd. She doesn't deserve to die for it."

The ranger gave a half-shrug. "Probably not. You gonna take your picture?"

"You could let her go," Haru said. He made contact with both of them as he said it, the stooped ranger and the bleary grumpig. The ranger's eyebrows shot upwards. The grumpig blinked slowly.

"Sure. And lose my job." He frowned. "You're not really from the Sun, are you."

Before either of them could answer, he flipped a switch on the wall. Haru reeled against the sudden flood of light.

"Shit. You're the trainer."

Three things happened in quick succession. The ranger shouted a garbled command to the grumpig. Maliki drew a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and clapped it across his face. And Atalanta jetted out from Haru's pack like an escaping bottle cork.

As the ranger stumbled backward, coughing, the grumpig's gem flashed and Haru's knees locked. He couldn't move his legs, but his mouth was still free.

"Double team and then bug bite."

Atalanta's form rippled and split. One ninjask dove straight at the grumpig, whose gem shifted to a diamond-white. The power gem attack hit the ninjask headlong, obliterating it, even as the true ninjask swept in from behind, her small mandibles clamping tight onto the back of the grumpig's head.

The grumpig let out a pained grunt, and Haru could move again. The ranger had staggered almost to the door, but as he reached for the handle he swayed and then crumpled forward. The sleeping spore—the last of Haru's collection—had done its job.

As Atalanta dodged a second power gem, Maliki bent over the fallen ranger and rose with a pokeball in hand. The recall light blazed red—and just like that, it was over.

Haru was bent at Heconilia's side before he was conscious of moving. Even the light and noise of the impromptu battle hadn't managed to dislodge her from sleep. Drugged sleep, Haru realized, when he shook her and received no response. She wouldn't be able to escape this place under her own power. His hands still shaking, Haru drew out the broken ball from his pack.

"We shouldn't take the ferry," Maliki said. She was standing by the doorway, looking out. "It only runs on the hour. If they come after us before then, there's nowhere to run. I have a contact who lives on the outskirts of Fortree. If we can just get to her, we'll be safe."

It was the first Haru had heard about any kind of contact, but he accepted it with a nod. Maliki treated information like food in a famine: you got only what was necessary to survive.

Outside, the rain fell lightly, its delicacy at odds with the disjointed pulsing of Haru's heart. The water had soaked the path dark, but it was not yet so muddy that their tracks showed.

The back of Haru's neck prickled as they walked. With each step he expected pursuit to burst from the small gray station receding behind them. Instinct shouted at him to run, to hide, anything to get out of sight, to not inch his way along the path as exposed as a caterpie under a pidgeotto's predatory eye. But in order to reach Fortree, they first had to cross the bridge. It was only a short distance by the path, but if they ventured off-road too quickly, the bridge might be watched by the time they re-emerged to cross. Navigating the dark maze of the canopy was treacherous without a nav or a guide. Last time Haru had been here, he had both.

As they rounded the first bend, Haru slowed as if he'd waded into deep water. His right hand tightened around Heconilia's ball. His left leaped to the rainbow wing buried under his rain jacket.

This was where the rain had spoken to him.

Grandmother, if you're there . . .

No answer came except for the plaintive rush of wind through the canopy. Haru shivered. He cast down his eyes, wondering what he had expected—wondering at his own presumption that miracles could happen twice.

And then he saw it: a vine peeking over the edge of the path. The leaves were spade-shaped and veined with translucent white. He hurried to crouch beside it. First his fingers met the cool slickness of wet plant, then clay-like soil, until at last they closed around something solid. He tugged.

The chesto berry was pale-blue and already beginning to mold. It rained here far too frequently for the plant to thrive, but chestos were invasives, sprouting wherever trainers dropped their seeds. Haru held the berry up to Maliki, who made a prayer-sign.

They both knew a blessing when they saw one.

By the time they reached the bridge, the quiet felt almost eerie. Half-way down the road they had passed the teenagers from the station, who were too engrossed in their own conversation to give Haru and Maliki a second glance. But beyond that, the path stayed empty behind them and the sky clear of pursuit. How long until someone entered the station and wondered why there was no active ranger at the post? How long until the station received a call that went unanswered? How long did it take an absence to become a presence?

Even if it was only an illusion of safety, Haru felt his breath ease as they turned off the road. The light dimmed immediately, as if in a few steps they had passed from morning into twilight. When they came to a small gap in the trees, Haru released Heconilia.

He had thought she would look more like herself in the green half-light of the jungle, but somehow it had the opposite effect. She looked like a branch cut from a tree, the leaves limp and wilting, sinking into the dirt to decompose.

Haru shook away the image and began to peel the chesto berry, exposing its milk-white innards. He eased Heconilia's jaws open until he could lay a thin slice on her tongue, where her saliva would break the fruit down enough to release its cortisol into her system. He waited, as Maliki stood sentry. After a minute, Heconilia's tongue began to move like a lazy seviper.

Haru risked a larger chunk. This time, Heconilia swallowed noisily and her head twitched, jerking upward. She surged into awareness like a summer gale. Her wings fanned out and a loud cry split from her throat. It rang out more piercing than a city siren.

"Heconilia, it's okay!" Haru called, afraid to raise his voice beyond a hushed shout. "It's me. You're safe now."

Her wild gaze finally registered him. She lumbered forward, and before Haru could move he found himself pinned to the damp earth, Heconilia's tongue rasping across his cheek. His arms came up to wrap around her neck. The skin there was soft like wooly hedge-nettle. She let out a gentle rumble and nuzzled his face again.

It felt so good to hold her close like this, to reassure himself with her solidity, her fragrance, the warmth and vitality of her skin. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and bask in it. But a thorn pricked in his chest.

"Heconilia, could you please—" His mouth had gone dry. He tried again. "Could you please show me your wings again?"

It took a moment for his request to sink in. The chesto had woken her, but not entirely. Haziness lingered in her eyes and her heavy movements as she climbed off of him and fanned out her wings.

Haru had admired those wings from the first time he had seen them. The fronds had the same dark tone as a jade plant and the same smooth sheen. Then he'd seen her fly, and admiration had elevated into wonder.

Looking up at her now, Haru thought he might be sick. With her wings laid flat against her back, Haru hadn't been able to tell, but now he saw clear as day the five precise cuts in each wing-frond. The edges of the cuts were pink, but they didn't seem to have bled.

That's right, Haru thought inanely. Tropius wings don't bleed.

Perplexity floated across Heconilia's face. She flexed again, then began to beat her wings, faster and faster, the frantic flurry that signaled lift-off, but the air passed through her wings like wind through a wheatfield. She wheeled around, her amber eyes bright with panic, seeking an answer Haru couldn't give.

How could he explain? How could she understand, when he could hardly grasp it? He'd offered her a choice that night in Evergrande, and he hadn't known, hadn't grasped just how little choice remained for her. When she had followed him from Route 119, she had bound herself to the rules of a system she'd never learned and never been taught, a trap that didn't show its blades until it sprang.

What had he achieved except to cause her more pain? If he had taken her to the Daycare, at least she would be safe from harm. At least she would still be able to fly.

Dimly, he registered Heconilia's bellowing and that Maliki was shaking him, her face frantic.

"She'll bring the whole jungle down on us," Maliki hissed. "Calm her or recall her, we have to move."

But Heconilia was gone. Maliki tugged at his arm again, and they set off behind her, following the trail of broken branches and crushed bromeliads. Even with her wings maimed, Heconilia moved with a speed that belied her bulk.

When they caught up with her, she had mounted a small plateau and she was no longer alone. Another tropius stood there, regarding Heconilia with hurt confusion. When he stepped forward, Heconilia growled, though the sound was more miserable than aggressive. The other tropius let out a low croon. He bared his neck, offering his fruit.

Heconilia winced. Her gaze dragged across the treetops, as if searching for an escape. Then, unbearably slowly, she unfurled her wings.

Haru closed his eyes as understanding set in. This was Heconilia's mate. But he wouldn't be, not after this. Tropius herds were migratory. They took wing every few turns of the sun, cycling through patches of fruit-trees. Heconilia wouldn't be able to join them. She hadn't just lost her wings—she had lost the life she'd begun to build here.

"Oh."

At Maliki's soft exhale, Haru blinked. Heconilia's mate hadn't flown away. As Haru watched with a dizzy disbelief, he took another step forward and bared his neck again. He crooned, more insistently.

"Heconilia," Haru said quietly. Her head jerked around—her amber eyes swam with doubt. "I think he means it."

Trembling, she extended her neck and closed her mouth around the fruit. The tropius stood still as she ate and when she had finished, he twined his neck around hers. Heconilia looked back at him in wonder.

It was the kind of moment that should have brought the world crashing to a halt, dispelled the clouds from the sky and set rainbows in their place. Nothing should have intruded on a moment like that, but Haru had to speak.

"They'll come after you again. They'll capture you and kill you, Heconilia. And I won't be here to stop it. If you come with me, I'll try to find somewhere safe for you, but I can't promise that it will be safe. I can't promise you anything, Heconilia. I'm sorry."

He'd never know, Haru realized, as Heconilia met his gaze with a strange, furious placidity and snuggled closer to her mate. He'd never know how fully she understood the consequences of this choice.

All he could do was bow his head in silent acknowledgement that she had found something she was willing to die for.

"Let's go," he said to Maliki. The rain tickled his nose and lips; the wind had nothing to add.

The rest of the journey seemed to occur without Haru's conscious participation. He was aware of dense ferns, roots that cut across the ground, the curve of low-hanging vines, but it all seemed static, like a sequence of pictures projected from a film-reel. At one point, Maliki stiffened and pushed him to the ground. As he lay there, blinking, an oddish sprouted indignantly from the soil, made gigantic by the change in perspective. Belatedly, Haru caught the sound that had spooked Maliki—powerful wingbeats above. They remained stiff as silcoon until the sounds diminished, and then the film-reel journey resumed.

The trees thinned out, revealing patches of powdery blue sky. Twilight began to set in, but the growing dark only intensified the sky's blueness. Haru was possessed by the dreamy notion that as more and more light leached away, the sky would not turn black, but only become more perfectly blue.

"This way," Maliki said, jolting him from his stupor. She picked their path more carefully now, stopping on occasion to verify personal landmarks. In a patch of jungle only marginally more clear than the rest, Maliki came to a halt beneath a thick tree trunk.

She tugged at a vine—a rope, Haru realized as he came closer, dyed dark green to resemble its surroundings. A chime tinkled, followed by a long silence. Maliki's face grew taut.

"Who's there?" a woman's voice called out finally.

Haru expected relief from Maliki, but she swallowed before she spoke. "It's me, Dongmei. And a guest."

The voice didn't respond, but after a moment a rope ladder unfurled from above.

The woman waiting for them at the top was closer to Maliki's age than Haru's. She was tall, with a thin, tired face, her hair bound back in the loose ponytail ubiquitous around Fortree. A chimecho dozed around her neck.

She and Maliki stared at each other like strangers. The woman said, "So is this the kind of guest whose name I get to know?"

The polite thing to do would be to bow and introduce himself. Just two days ago, Haru would have done so without question, mortified by his delay. But he stood mute as Maliki answered for him, "Call him Caterpie. He needs transport."

"And what do you need, Mal?" the woman said quietly.

Discomfort flitted across Maliki's face. Equally quietly, she said, "Whatever you're willing to give."

The woman turned and beckoned them into her tree-house. Rayquaza streamers hung from the ceiling, strands of green, red and black fluttering gently as wind passed through the open door. Some rayquaza sects held it sacrilegious to depict the god in any medium that was incapable of movement, Haru recalled. The famous mural at Sky Pillar still was subject to the occasional protest or attempted vandalism for that. The interior smelled of roasted berries, and when Haru's stomach let out a lurching rumble, he realized that he hadn't eaten since his unfinished, pre-dawn breakfast.

"You'll want tea," the woman said, but distractedly. "You're running again, aren't you."

"Dongmei—" Maliki lifted her hand towards the other woman's cheek. It lingered in the air like a hesitant beautifly. "It was necessary."

"You think anything that's right is necessary."

Maliki let out a short breath.

"I'll make tea," Haru said loudly. He made his escape before either of them could answer, though he was half-certain that they hadn't heard him. The lingering scent of berry roast guided him through a beaded curtain into a tight galley kitchen, where an iron teapot perched on a lightning stove. Haru discovered a pouch of jasmine in a hanging basket and a set of porcelain teacups stored low to the ground. He found himself taking an instant liking to this kitchen and the organized mind behind it. His mother had said that once, though she had meant it as an insult—that you could learn everything you needed to know about a person just from their kitchen.

. . . He was never going to see her again.

Haru spared a thought to be glad that he'd already set down the teapot, because at that moment his hands began to shake, and the shaking spread to his whole body. The kitchen had no chairs, so Haru sank down to the floor.

Tea. He had assaulted a federal officer and he was making tea.

This was no anonymous raid, spraying graffiti like a delinquent teenager and running off with a sack of pokeballs in the dark. The ranger had recognized him. Assault, dumping—theft? Haru's thoughts ran wildly, ping-ponged, and collided. Could he be charged with theft for stealing someone they'd intended to kill?

It had felt impossibly selfish to dwell on what he had forfeited, when Heconilia stood in front of him, hunted and mutilated. But now it roared up like the wind that hit after stepping off a cliff.

What now?

A shrill complaint sounded from his backpack. Haru had just enough sense left to undo the buckles—Atalanta crawled out, her tiny claws clinking against the wood floor. She scented curiously with her antenna, then let out another complaint call.

"Hungry?" Haru asked dully.

She hummed at him, pleased by the question. But when he didn't immediately offer food, she took to the air, buzzing from basket to basket.

He hadn't thought about what would come after. There was only failure—Heconilia's cold corpse, the cold bite of handcuffs on his wrists—or success. And what had success been, what had he imagined in the whirling recesses of his mind? A bright but hazy vision of Heconilia rising above the treeline with a triumphant bellow, Haru on her back. It had been a fantasy, from start to finish, the fantasy that one could fly and fly and never need to land.

Atalanta had settled next to a small ceramic pot on the counter. Her buzzing rose to a celebratory thrum as she made to thrust the lid aside.

"Careful, Atalanta, don't break it—"

At the hoarse crack of his voice, she paused in her honey-seeking and clambered back onto his head. Her pincers scraped at his scalp while her antenna probed the tip of his nose. Nobody could have called her insectoid, quivering body cuddly, but she was real and she was alive.

Atalanta had the right idea, Haru decided. He forced himself to stand. The water seemed to have come to a boil some time ago without him noticing, so he steeped the tea while she burrowed herself in the honey jar, her shrills mellowing into ecstatic chirps.

As Haru poured the dark liquid into three cups, he realized that the low conversation from the living room had faded away. He steadied himself with a long breath and pushed back the curtain.

Dongmei sat on the couch, Maliki's head resting on her lap. Maliki's eyes were closed and her breath rose and fell to the steady pulse of sleep. Haru paused in the entrance-way, stricken.

When Dongmei noticed him, she gestured him over.

"Naps like a delcatty, doesn't she?" she said in a hushed voice. "Thank you for making tea."

"Thank you for hosting me." Finally, Haru found his manners. He made a bow deep enough to honor a high priest. "I'm so sorry to be intruding on you like this. And—my ninjask ate your honey."

"My honey." The woman looked at Atalanta, who shifted uneasily on Haru's head. A baffled smile curved across her face. "My honey." She began to chuckle softly to herself. "Your apology is accepted. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

There wasn't any room on the couch, so Haru settled on a floor cushion. He found his gaze sneaking back to Maliki's sleeping face. Somehow, he had exempted Maliki from the indignities of mundane human needs. It was startling to catch her occasional snore, the sudden twitch of her lip. He remembered the day he'd gone to visit Grandmother and found her kneeling in front of the Ho-oh shrine. He'd kept silent for ten whole minutes—an eternity for a seven-year-old—until a snore had made him jump, and he had understood that she wasn't in prayer after all, but had simply nodded off where she knelt.

"She doesn't rest enough," Dongmei said, picking up on Haru's unspoken train of thought. "I always tell her that."

"Have you been together long?" Haru asked clumsily.

Dongmei's lips pursed. "Long enough." With her free hand, the one not resting on Maliki's arm, she took a cup from Haru's tray. "She told me what you did. Don't worry," she added as Haru flinched, "I have more than enough practice telling half-truths to federal authorities. I just—" She blew on the tea and took a cautious sip. "Nicely brewed. This jasmine comes direct from Mt Pyre, you won't find better anywhere."

Haru sipped from his own cup, rolling the smooth liquid in his mouth.

"It's very good," he agreed, wondering if she would complete the thought she'd backed away from.

"I've never gone with her," the woman said abruptly, setting her cup down. "She's never asked me to. She knows what I'd say. I think it's right, what she does, only—I don't want to live like that, constantly running, never carrying more than fits in a backpack. I was so proud, when I first built this place, of having a home, the solidity of it. Maybe I'm a coward."

"I don't think that." Haru surprised himself with his vehemence. He took in the living room once more, the carefully carved cabinets, the silent dance of the rayquaza streamers, Maliki's peaceful face. "Places to rest—everyone needs that. Only Suicune can run forever."

Dongmei's forehead furrowed. She didn't accept his statement or deny it, but he could see that she was digesting it. She was the kind of person who thought about things long after they were spoken, Haru decided.

"My chimecho can teleport," she said briskly, after a minute had crept by. "Maliki will be staying here tonight, but how can I help you?"

Haru swallowed. "Atalanta"—he gestured to indicate the ninjask—"she needs to get back to Route 117. Would that be possible?"

Dongmei nodded.

"And you, Haru?"

Maliki's voice startled them both. Her eyes were still shut, and her braids fanned out around her face like a crown. "We're both a bit too hot for the worship house, I'm afraid. There are other houses, of course. Safe places."

Haru caught the curl of invitation in her voice, the same dare she'd made him once before. Which kind of person are you? He had crossed every line, and yet something in him still flinched away.

Because there was one place he could always land. It came back to him now, those laws and rights that had existed long before the first metal building ever pierced the Rustburo sky and would exist long after all buildings fell.

He felt the words before he spoke them—a gnawing ache in his chest, too long neglected. And he gave the answer that Heconilia had given, that night it all began.

"I want to go home," Haru said.