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out whether I'm a threat. As I pauses behind me, he leans closer and I feel his breath on my bare shoulder. I look over at my reflection in the mirror and I realize I can't see him at all; it's just me, just my reflection, but I can definitely feel him right behind me.
    "Patrick -" I start to say.
    Suddenly I feel his brush against my shoulder. I stare at myself in the mirror; I still can't see him, but I can feel him. I try to tell myself that the bedroom is dark, and that this is why I can't make out his reflection. Still, as I feel his hand touch my toweled waist, I know that I'm fooling myself. There's only one reason why I can't see Patrick's reflection: he doesn't have a reflection. He continues to run his hand down from my waist and onto my hip. At first, I assume he's trying to seduce me, but after a moment I realize it's more like he's checking something, as if he's trying to work out if I'm the right shape and size. Eventually he reaches up and moves my wet, straggly hair away from my neck, and he runs the tip of his finger down from my ear to my shoulder, as if he's tracing the line of something I can't see. Finally, I decide to turn and face him, to ask him what's really happening.
    But when I do, he's gone.
    I turn and look over at the open window. I go and look out, but there's no sign of him. How did he get out so fast? There's only one possible explanation. He was never with me at all. The reason I didn't see his reflection was simply that he wasn't there. I imagined it all. I guess it's official, then: I'm losing my mind.

Patrick
     
    I heard him outside the window. Listening, watching, recording. The little red light of his video camera. He seems to be gone now, but the ghosts and I spend the rest of the night watching her house. Sure enough, just before dawn he shows up again. He keeps his distance, just seems to be loitering and checking out the area. But it's him alright. I've been waiting for him to show up for years, but I still don't know if I'm ready.
    There are ghosts on the road tonight, whispering to me again as I pass. Some days more than others, it's hard to ignore them. Perhaps that's because I know that what they're saying is true. But it's the kind of truth I don't need right now. They're just echoes, voices sent from the past by a species that knew it was about to die.
    I need answers. I should speak to my father, but I feel he has told me as much as he can, or as much as he will . I need to find these answers for myself. If there were others, I could ask them. But there are no others. My father is a good substitute at times, but he and I both know that the time will come when he isn't around to help me. This is part of the learning process. And after what happened the last time I had to ask him for help, I know one thing for sure: I'm never going to ask him again. Asking him is how this whole mess started in the first place.
    Lately, though, the signals have been muddled. For more than seven decades, I have felt how alone I am in the world. But while that's still true, there's some static in the background now. I've only felt like this one time before, when the Sentinels put down their weapons and ripped apart their sanctuary, releasing the nightmare. Fortunately the Sentinels are long gone, turned inside out by their own faction. But it feels as if something of that magnitude is stirring far away. I'm starting to worry about this girl Sophie, though; things are moving too fast, and she's starting to draw attention to herself.

Sophie
     
    The next day, I have to go into town to look for a job, but only for the morning. It's the usual soul-crushing drudgery, going from store to store and handing my resume to a bunch of people who clearly couldn't care less. When lunchtime comes, I decide to head for home, but I take a quick detour to the bus station so I can take a look at the departure board. I swear to God, one day I'm going to get out of this town. I don't care where I go. Anywhere. Just