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I know my name.” He squeezed her hand and sat back again. “It’s like the way you pulled Rachel out of the past without realizing you had. It was just meant to be.”
    “Maybe.”
    “There’s no maybe about it. What happened then was my doing. All of it. And there was some purpose to it. We just don’t know what it was, yet.”
    Dylan sat back in her chair and stared out at the moon. It was edging toward the horizon, about ready to set and allow the sun to take its place. Another day was about to begin…another step toward the unknown future.
    Dylan had often wondered if she could go into the future. She was pretty sure she had once, and that she saw her still-unborn daughter running the rebellion in a dark future that never came to pass. But she was afraid to consciously seek out the future. She was afraid of what she might see there, afraid that everything they had built, everything they had achieved, would prove to have been in vain.
    Or that her future might include a world without the people she loved.
    That was the true nightmare.

Chapter 5
     
    Stiles sat on the roof of the hospital, thumbing through Dillon’s notebook. He didn’t completely understand it all, but he knew someone who would. But he wasn’t quite ready to hand it over. Right now, he was drawn to the personal things: notes Dillon had made in the margins to remind himself of things he wanted to say to Sara, things he wanted to do with Rhonda and Anna. There was a notation late in the book that talked about his dreams for after the war. He wanted to have a house in the middle of nowhere, to raise livestock and have children with Sara, strapping sons who would inherit the land and raise their own children there.
    Stiles hadn’t known that Dillon had thought about the future. He’d always said he knew he would die in the war. But, as seemed common in humans, he’d held onto hope.
    Hope, like love, were emotions Stiles had never really understood. How could someone feel hope in the bleakest moments of their life? All the people who’d died in the war, each one of them had hope that the war would end before it came to their part of the world. All the people who’d fought the angels despite their clearly superior strength did it because they’d had hope. Hope had given them strength, and that was a good thing. But their hope was often based in illogical ideals and that was something Stiles never really understood.
    He closed the notebook and tucked it inside the pocket of his jacket, an old leather jacket he’d found in some ruins years ago. As he watched, several groups of people walked into the hospital, two or three of them were clearly ill. In the three hours that Stiles had been sitting up there, he’d counted fifteen sick entering those doors.
    This hospital only treated, on average, a hundred patients a year.
    Stiles went into the hospital and walked among the patients, touching one here and there. Harry was standing at the nurse’s station, reviewing a chart while simultaneously giving instructions to Lucy, one of two nurses who worked the day shift.
    “Harry.”
    He looked up. “I don’t have time right now, Stiles.”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    Harry gestured to the crowded waiting room. “We’re a little busy.”
    “I can see that. But that’s what I need to talk to you about.”
    Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what you want to talk about? My mother just died and all you have to say to me is something to do with the common cold?”
    “Harry—“
    He turned and walked away without saying anything else. Stiles could feel his anger rolling off of him in almost palpable waves. He wanted to go after him, but someone cried out in a room behind the nurse’s station. Lucy turned and ran, the color draining from her face. Stiles followed. His heart sank as he peered around the doorway and saw the patient lying in the hospital bed.
    Keely. She was the sixteen-year-old granddaughter of Miranda, one of the original city