We all are connected/
A lighthouse, a voyage/
For history's sake/
Would you please take notice?/

"Hey guys," Claire said. "We're on TV."

Sure enough, their faces were flashing across the screen in quick succession, clips so devastatingly revealing that they all began to feel queasy, drunk-sick: Peter in Isaac's apartment, throwing him across the room with telekinesis; Claire coming out of her house in Odessa, covered with burns that melted to nothing; footage that looked like Hollywood special effects from the Monticello breakout. Their names were blazoned under them like Most Wanted mug shots, and the perfectly coiffed anchorwoman was telling her watchers that they were extremely dangerous and should not be approached.

While the rest of them stood, rigor mortis, struck useless by this thoroughly unexpected blow, one person (who, in their defense, had known about this before the fact) moved to instant action. Jonathan snatched his hat off and shoved it onto Claire's head, pulling it low over her face and covering as much of her suddenly-recognizable blond curls as possible. Bennet broke out of the stupor at his movement, pulling Claire into him and shielding her with his body.

"Katie, Claire, and Peter have all been flagged," he said in a brisk, urgent whisper. "Nathan and Jonathan, you appear to be safe for now. Katie, I need you to shift immediately and as unobtrusively as possible—it doesn't matter what form you take, just get out of that one. Nathan, get Peter's attention and get him to shift as well, see if you can get him away from security. Jonathan, go to the nearest in-airport shop and get me some kind of hair dye—Katie, go with him and get scissors and a flat iron, if you can find one. I'm taking Claire to the Starbucks outside the terminal—I want everyone there in five minutes."

---

They had a some trouble locating each other at the Starbuck's—which was a positive thing, Nathan realized, as it meant that their new disguises were vastly effective, enough to fool a brother or a father. Peter had taken the form of the taxi driver that had gotten them to the airport that morning, a skinny collegiate person with black-rimmed glasses. Katie now appeared to be a tall Latina woman with masses of hair, who looked like a dancer and moved with a well-faked Hispanic rhythm. Claire was the biggest shocker, still herself but drastically, unrecognizably altered—her hair was now a dark chocolate brown, expertly cut by Katie to just below the shoulder and ironed perfectly straight. She looked older, and harsher, less sweet and approachable, and most importantly, nothing like Claire Bennet from Odessa.

As soon as they'd all managed to find each other, they pulled three tables together in the corner of the coffee shop and crowded into each other for comfort, heads bowed over their coffees in weary survival. "Now what?" Peter asked, and everyone started slightly to hear his voice, which he hadn't bothered to change to match his new form.

"I've changed our flight plans," Nathan told them. "We're flying out at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. By then, I'll have my hands on new IDs and tickets for you three under new names. If anyone recognizes you before then—unlikely—then we'll have a severe problem, so everyone cross their fingers for luck."

"The story is," Mr. Bennet informed them, "that Linderman's private laboratory had some kind of an accident involving toxic chemicals, in which all of you were supposedly caught up. I guess he's not ready to come absolutely clean yet, but it doesn't matter for us—his half-truths are damaging enough. Apparently, you've all gone completely mad from the mutations and are very dangerous, should be apprehended by the police, et cetera. The point is, he's got us pretty well boxed in from all sides now."

Jonathan slid his watch around his wrist until he could glance at the face with the appropriate teenage cazsh. "Four o'clock, huh? That give us, what, thirteen hours? I assume we have some kind of a plan?"

"I thought maybe we'd just hang around Starbucks all night," Nathan said irritably. "We could order lots of biscotti and camp out under the tables. Doesn't that sound fun?"

"Whoa there, Sarcasm Man, it's a reasonable question," Peter defended. "Are we thinking hotel, or should we just call Linderman now and give him a treasure map with a big red X?"

"Well, yes, obviously, Linderman will have the hotels watched," Nathan relented. "But I think if we split up a little and use false names, we should be all right."

"False names?" Jonathan scoffed, busy eating the whipped cream from the top of his frappucino with a spoon. "Come on, guys, don't you think this is all getting a bit Nancy Drew?"

"You're certainly welcome to leave," Mr. Bennet said coolly.

Katie put a hand on Jonathan's arm, subtly moving herself between him and the rest of the table. "You said something about a hotel?" she intervened, gently steering back to topic.

"Yes, I did," Nathan confirmed. "You, Peter, and I will be staying in one hotel, while Jonathan and Claire check into another one."

Jonathan grinned. "I take it all back—I like this plan."

"Mr. Bennet will, of course, be with them at all times," Nathan finished, glowering at Jonathan's cheerful innuendo.

"Ah," Jonathan said, leaning back in his chair. "The fine print."

"So that's it, then," Mr. Bennet finished, ignoring Jonathan through sheer force of will (which fortunately, he wasn't short on). "Let's get out of this airport."

They stood, half-consumed coffees in hand, and wandered out of the restaurant in carefully-scattered pairs and threes. It looked natural, unnoticeable—by now, they were all pros at undercover, as good as any CIA operative or cheating husband. Peter made sure he ended up walking next to Claire—he'd noticed her unusual silence at the table, picking up her I'm-upset vibe like it was second nature, now, to worry about her and gage her happiness.

"You okay?" he asked her as they left, moving fast enough to fit in with the rest of the power-walkers anxious to catch their flights, careful not to collide with anyone who might look too closely.

"Yeah," she said unconvincingly.

"Liar," he accused. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," she said. "It's stupid."

"I don't care," he told her. "Tell me anyway. I hear it's therapeutic, telling another person—haven't you seen 'Oprah'?"

"Oh," she said unhappily. "It's just—my hair."

"Aha," he said understandingly—sometimes he forgot that she was a sixteen-year-old girl, with her growing stronger and more trustworthy every minute, more dependable than most adults he knew. "Well, for what's it worth, I think it looks great. Very edgy."

"I told you it was stupid," she said. "I guess it was sort of the last thing I had that was me, you know? I haven't been acting like myself for weeks, but I could cope with that, because it helped me survive and all—but now, God, Peter, I don't even look like me anymore. I used to define myself as this blond cheerleader, but now I'm not a cheerleader and I'm not even blond, and I don't know what I am. It makes me dizzy to think about it."

He pulled her in and kissed her on the forehead, hoping she couldn't see the small smile on his face. He hoped he had children someday, he really did—but for now, Claire was a good substitute. "If the worst thing you've got to worry about is your hair," he told her, "I think we're doing pretty good."

---

Jonathan waited for Claire and her father to tangle themselves up in an intense father-daughter discussion (which they were strangely inclined to do—Jonathan had never seen a parent and child so bizarrely close) before he left. Sadly, there were no balconies in their suite, so he went walking down the hall until he found a suitable substitute, positioning himself in a niche by the ice machine before making his call.

"Hi, Jessica," he said. "Guess where we are?"