"That's not all that has to get better," she said. "You can't just let this fester. Your brother. That *thing* in the cave..." She shook her head. "Someone needs to know about this. You're not safe." "Promise me you won't tell anyone, Marci. This is important. No one except you knows, and that's how it has to be. If you tell --" "What?" She got up and pulled her coat on. "What, Alan? If I tell and try to help you, what will you do to me?" "I don't know," he mumbled into his chest. "Well, you do whatever you have to do," she said, and stomped out of the cave. # Davey escaped at dawn. Kurt had gone outside to repark his old Buick, the trunk bungeed shut over his haul of LCD flat panels, empty laser-toner cartridges, and open gift baskets of pricey Japanese cosmetics. Alan and Davey just glared at each other, but then Davey closed his eyes and began to snore softly, and even though Alan paced and pinched the bridge of his nose and stretched out his injured arm, he couldn't help it when he sat down and closed his eyes and nodded off. Alan woke with a start, staring at the empty loops of duct tape and twine hanging from his captain's chair, dried strings of skin like desiccated banana peel fibers hanging from them. He swore to himself quietly, and shouted Shit! at the low basement ceiling. He couldn't have been asleep for more than a few seconds, and the half-window that Davey had escaped through gaped open at him like a sneer. He tottered to his feet and went out to find Kurt, bare feet jammed into sneakers, bare chest and bandages covered up with a jacket. He found Kurt cutting through the park, dragging his heels in the bloody dawn light. Kurt looked at his expression, then said, "What happened?" He had his fists at his sides, he looked tensed to run. Alan felt that he was waiting for an order. "He got away." "How?" Alan shook his head. "Can you help me get dressed? I don't think I can get a shirt on by myself." They went to the Greek's, waiting out front on the curb for the old man to show up and unchain the chairs and drag them out around the table. He served them tall coffees and omelets sleepily, and they ate in silence, too tired to talk. "Let me take you to the doctor?" Kurt asked, nodding at the bandage that bulged under his shirt. "No," Alan said. "I'm a fast healer." Kurt rubbed at his calf and winced. "He broke the skin," he said. "You got all your shots?" "Hell yeah. Too much crap in the dumpsters. I once found a styro cooler of smashed blood vials in a Red Cross trash." "You'll be okay, then," Alan said. He shifted in his seat and winced. He grunted a little ouch. Kurt narrowed his eyes and shook his head at him. "This is pretty fucked up right here," Kurt said, looking down into his coffee. "It's only a little less weird for me, if that's any comfort." "It's not," Kurt said. "Well, that's why I don't usually tell others. You're only the second person to believe it."