Used to dream until I stopped writing fiction/
All is right, well, that's not true/
Maybe it ended when I ended competition/
Because I'd always lose/

As thrilled as he was that Peter had found a way to potentially not blow up New York City, Nathan was jealous again. The instant Katie came in, he saw attraction between them, like a visible cord, like a chain that everyone else was aware of but them. However, he also knew that he really didn't have anything to worry about yet—there would be nothing happening for a very long time. Considering that he'd almost literally killed his girlfriend barely two weeks ago, his brother was anything but ready for a new relationship. Katie Ramira would have to wait.

That didn't stop him, though, from carrying her away at the first possible moment, talking her ear off, delighted at having pinned down this kinder, more attractive version of Claude. This effectively left the rest of them alone with the other one, the teenage boy with black hair and an off-center smile that he hoped his own sons never grew into. Even with his new resolution to stay out of Claire's life, he found latent fatherly instincts prickling at the look the kid had given her, appraising her as if she'd been an antique dresser and apparently pleased with what he saw. It had been enough to send both of Claire's fathers into identical defensive postures before he even spoke a word, though Claire herself didn't seem to notice at all.

There was an intense, compounded awkwardness threaded through the room, the inelegance of a situation in which people were once again thrown together without notice or consent. Hana, the only one of them apparently immune to the discomfort, was the first to speak. "Jonathan, right?" she said. "I'm Hana. Welcome to my apartment, I apologize for the lack of space—it's really very comfortable for one person, but not so much for seven."

He didn't answer, only stuck his hands in his pocket and continued his examination of the room. "Do you have anyone you need to get in contact with?" Mr. Bennet asked helpfully. "Family?"

"Nope," Jonathan said, clearly prepared to communicate in monosyllables.

"No, you don't need to contact your family, or no, you don't have a family?" Nathan said, slightly bothered, as he always seemed to become when he dealt with teenagers.

"No, I don't have a family," Jonathan said, looking straight at him, irritated with a hint of sarcasm.

"You don't have a family?" Mr. Bennet asked flatly.

"Nope."

"I find that biologically difficult to believe."

"And I really don't care."

Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows, blinked, and reconsidered ever letting Claire get married. He supposed he'd been lucky with his own child-raising experience: Claire had always been close to him, always sweet and understanding. Of course, she presented other problems, in the form of dangerous genetic mutations and such, but she'd never been much of a parenting challenge. Perhaps it was a boy thing. "Right," he said, feeling his patience straining dangerously. "Nathan, why don't you show me those articles you were talking about earlier?"

As they left the room, Claire looked up for the first time and became violently aware of Jonathan's gaze on her, steady and entirely unapologetic. His woodsmoke-gray eyes made her suddenly conscious of the overlarge, unflattering band t-shirt she wore, the unbrushed state of her hair, the rips in the knees of her favorite jeans. She turned away abruptly, walking out on the balcony to escape the lacerating stare. This was her favorite place in Hana's apartment, anyway, out above the alleys and burned-out neon signs, the kind of cutaway view of Sin City that no one ever put in travel brochures.

Her escape attempt was unsuccessful—within seconds, she heard footsteps on the deck, and then Jonathan was leaning on the railing beside her. "The Ramones, huh?" he said, nodding at her shirt.

"Yeah," she said, pulling the sleeves nervously down over her hands, unsure of what he wanted.

"Good band. Ever heard the acoustic version of 'California Sun'?"

"No," she admitted. "It's not even my shirt. I mean, I do like them, but the shirt belongs to my friend Zach. I was supposed to be borrowing it, but I don't know if he'll ever get it back now."

"Uh-huh," he said inscrutably. "Boyfriend?"

"No," she said, thrown by his bluntness and suddenly missing Zach very much, with his unwavering loyalty and lovable, geeky bouts of shyness. He knew everything about her, always knew when to hug her, and never made her uncomfortable.

"Good," he said, and before she could respond, he straightened and walked away, gone just as his remark was starting to hit her. She struggled internally for a moment, trying to decide whether not to be offended at his audacity, and finally settled on mild annoyance. She was flattered—he was attractive, in a James Dean sort of way—but he reminded her of Brody, which was a massive turn-off.

As if she didn't have enough problems already.

---

"'Five Die in Radiation Accident'," Mr. Bennet read from the computer screen. "Interesting. This is from The New York Times?"

"Yes," Nathan confirmed, clicking into another article, plastered with pictures of melting and crisped death. "So what do you think? Is it our exploding man?"

"I'd say it's pretty likely," Mr. Bennet mused. "I admit I'm surprised to see Ted in New York, but it certainly adds a whole new element to the apocalypse notion."

"You mean, that it might not be Peter?" Nathan asked. "As much as I don't want to see him blow himself to bits, I'm not sure how that helps us—whoever it is that goes nuclear, we've still got Hiroshima on our hands."

"You think we should try to stop him?"

"I think it would be in all of our best interests. I've got a lot of money tied up in real estate in that city."

"You know that if we all go racing up there, we run the risk of Peter meeting up with Ted and rendering the whole point moot?"

"Well, fine," Nathan said exasperatedly. "What do you suggest?"

Mr. Bennet stared at the laptop screen, the soft electronic glow from the monitor reflecting against his glasses, obscuring his eyes. "I don't know."

Suddenly, the lights went off, throwing them into uncompromising pitch blackness, and they heard a thump and a muffled yell from the other room. There was a split second of dark, and then the lights flicked back on, then on and off again like a strobe light, fast enough to send an epileptic into seizure. As soon as it stopped, and they trusted themselves to move without breaking bones, Nathan and Mr. Bennet dashed into the living room, prepared for anything and especially what they found.

Jessica Sanders was standing at the edge of the room, the focal point of a half-circle of frozen onlookers, with a pleased, unnervingly malicious smile and a gun to Jonathan's head. Mr. Bennet's first reaction was so what, let her kill the kid, I can't stand him, but he had the grace to be ashamed of the thought, and squashed it dead.

"Niki?" Beside, Nathan had turned an extremely unhealthy color and was looking as if he might need resuscitation if he didn't take a breath soon.

"Hey there, lover," the woman said with a grin that didn't quite fit her heart-shaped face. "Niki's not around right now, but you're close. I'll tell her you called, though, I think she really likes you."

Peter had a hand on Katie's arm, who looked like she wanted to leap for Jessica and tear her throat out, like a lioness or a mother. He was whispering something to her, very fast and just quiet enough that Mr. Bennet couldn't hear them, obviously slapdash-suturing together some sort of a plan. He hoped they realized that, with the gunmetal pressed right up against the base of Jonathan's skull, there wasn't anything they could do that would be faster than her pulling the trigger.

They didn't seem to understand the instant futility of such plans, and neither did Jonathan—sparks began building like a localized lightning storm in his hand, snapping loudly enough to catch Jessica's attention at once.

She shook him by the hold she had on the back of his collar, brisk and reprimanding. "Cool it there, cowboy," she said, pushing the gun harder into his neck. "And enough with the strobe light thing, I don't want to have to blow your brains out. Speaking of which," she looked up, making eye contact with each of the fugitives. "You're all coming with me. Now."