Behind my eyes I see him break Hooper’s neck, and I take a step back.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

Everything, I want to say. Histories have a pattern. From the moment they wake up, they devolve. They become more distressed, frightened, destructive. Whatever they’re feeling at the moment of waking becomes worse and worse. But they never, ever become rational, or self-possessed, or calm. Then how does Owen behave like a person in a hallway rather than a History in the Narrows? And why isn’t he on my list?

“I need you to come with me,” I say, trying to picture the nearest Returns door. Owen takes a single small step back.

“Mackenzie?”

“You’re dead.”

His brow creases. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I can prove it to you.” Prove it to both of us. My hand itches for the knife that’s hidden against my leg, but I think better of it. I’ve seen Owen use it. Instead I grip Da’s key. The teeth are rusted but sharp enough to break the skin, with pressure.

“Hold out your hand.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate, offering his right hand. I press the key against his palm—putting a key in the hands of a History; Da would kill me—and drag it quick across his skin. Owen hisses and pulls back, cradling his hand to his chest.

“Alive enough to feel that,” he grumbles, and I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake until he looks down at his hand and his expression changes, shifts from pain to surprise.

“Let me see,” I say.

Owen turns his palm toward me. The slash across his hand is a thin dark line, the skin clearly broken, but the cut doesn’t bleed. His eyes float up to mine.

“I don’t…” he starts, before his gaze drops back to his hand. “I don’t understand…I felt it.”

“Does it still hurt?”

He rubs at the line on his palm. “No.” And then, “What am I?”

“You’re a History,” I say. “Do you know what that means?”

He pauses, looks down over his arms, his wrists and hands, his clothes. A shadow flits across his face, but when he answers, it’s with a tight “No.”

“You’re a record of the person you were when you were alive.”

“A ghost?”

“No, not exactly. You—”

“But I am a ghost,” he cuts in, his voices inching louder, and I brace myself for the slip. “I’m not flesh and blood, I’m not human, I’m not alive, I’m not real…” And then he checks himself. Swallows hard and looks away. When his eyes find mine, he’s calm. Impossible.

“You have to go back,” I say again.

“Go where?”

“To the Archive. You don’t belong here.”

“Mackenzie,” he says, “I don’t belong there either.”

And I believe him. He’s not on my list, and if it weren’t for the irrefutable proof, I’d never believe he’s a History. I force myself to focus. He will slip; he has to—and then I’ll have to deal with him. I should deal with him now.

“How did you get here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was asleep, and then I was awake, and then I was walking.” He seems to remember only as he says it. “And then I saw you, and I knew you needed help.…”

“I didn’t need help,” I snap, and he does the one thing I’ve never seen a History do.

He laughs. It’s a soft, choked sound—but still.

“Yes, well,” he says, “you looked like you might appreciate a hand, then. How did you get here?”

“Through a door.”

His eyes go to the numbered ones. “One of those?”

“Yes.”

“Where do they go?”

“Out.”

“Can I go out?” he asks. There’s no apparent strain in the question, only curiosity.

“Not through those doors,” I say. “But I can take you through one with a white circle—”

“Those doors don’t go out,” he says shortly. “They go back. I’d rather stay here than go back there.” A flicker of anger again, but he’s already regaining composure, despite the fact that Histories don’t have composure.

“You need to go back,” I say.

His eyes narrow a fraction.

“I confuse you,” he says. “Why is that?”

Is he actually trying to read me?

“Because you’re—”

The sound of footsteps cuts through the hall.

I pull the list from my pocket, but it’s still blank. Then again, I’m standing right beside a History who, according to this same slip of paper, doesn’t exist, so I’m not sure how much I trust the system right now.

“Hide,” I whisper.

Owen holds his ground and stares past me down the hall. “Don’t make me go back.”

The steps are getting closer, only a few corridors away. “Owen, hide now.”

His gaze shifts back to me. “Promise me you won’t—”

“I can’t do that,” I say. “My job—”

“Please, Mackenzie. Give me one day.”

“Owen—”

“You owe me.” It’s not a challenge. When he says it, there’s a careful absence in his voice. No accusation. No demand. Just simple, empty observation. “You do.”

“Excuse me?”

“I helped you with that man, Hooper.” I can’t believe a History is trying to bargain. “Just one day.”

The steps are too close.

“Fine,” I hiss, pointing to a corridor. “Now, hide.”

Owen takes a few silent strides backward, vanishing into the dark as I spin and make my way briskly to the bend in the hall where the steps are growing louder and closer—

And then they stop.

I press myself against the corner and wait, but judging by the way the footsteps paused, the other person is waiting too.

Someone has to move, so I turn the corner.

The fist comes out of nowhere, narrowly missing my cheek. I duck and cross behind my attacker. A pole swipes toward my stomach, but my foot finds its way up at the same time, boot connecting with stick. The pole tumbles toward the damp floor. I catch it and bring it up to the attacker’s throat, pinning him against the wall. It’s only then that I look at his face, and I’m met by a crooked smile. My grip loosens.

“That’s twice in one day you’ve assaulted me.”

I let the pole fall away, and Wesley straightens.

“What the hell, Wes?” I growl. “I could have hurt you.”

“Um,” he says, rubbing his throat, “you kind of did.”

I shove him, but the moment my hands meet his body, his crashing rock band sound shatters into got to get away from there from her from them massive house giant stairs high laughter and glass escape before the pressure forces me back, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel ill. With Owen, I forgot about the inextricable link between touch and sight—he may act like a living being, but his quiet says he’s not. And Wes is anything but quiet. Did he see anything when our skin met? If he did, it doesn’t show.

“You know,” he says, “for someone who doesn’t like touching people, you keep finding ways to put your hands on me.”

“What are you even doing here?” I say.

He nods at the numbered doors. “I forgot my bag in the café. Thought I’d run back and get it.”

“Using the Narrows.”

“How do you think I go back and forth? I live on the other side of the city.”

“I don’t know, Wes! A cab? A bus? On foot?”

He raps a knuckle against the wall. “Condensed space, remember? The Narrows, fastest transportation around.”

I offer up the pole. “Here’s your stick.”

“Bˉo staff.” He takes the pole and twirls it a few times. There’s something in his eyes, not his usual grin, but a kind of happiness nonetheless, an excitement. Boys. He flicks his wrist and the pole collapses into a short cylinder, like the batons sprinters pass off in relay races.

He watches, obviously waiting for me to be impressed.

“Ooooooh,” I say halfheartedly, and he grumbles and puts the stick away. I turn back toward my numbered doors, eyes scanning the dark beyond for Owen, but he’s gone.

“How’s the hunting?” asks Wes.

“It’s getting worse,” I say. I can already feel a new name writing itself on the paper in my pocket. I leave the list there. “Was it this bad when you covered the territory?”