I'm a moron. I rushed right past him.

Trip is leaning back against the siding of the house, next to the door. Glaring at me. His eyes are like stars right now—bright silver, metallic, glimmering in the thumbnail of moonlight. They're just as cold, just as hard and unfeeling as the winking lights in the black sky.

"Go back inside," he says, the words fogging in front of him. Unnaturally slow, heavy breaths steam from his nose. He's still fighting to control his breathing.

Trying to catch my own, I glance him over. "You're the one without a coat on."

His eyes drop to my bare feet. He doesn't mention I'm the one without shoes on. I forgot that. He only levels his eyes on mine again. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Hugging my arms to my chest for warmth, I search him through the darkness. My gaze doesn't waver from his, even though he's staring me down. We're at a stalemate, each of us waiting for the other to break eye contact. Neither of us looks away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.

"No."

"You smashed that coffee mug when the baby started screaming."

"Fuck off." A flash of teeth. His eyes flare.

But his anger doesn't faze me. It only confirms the truth. It was that noise which made him snap and smash the coffee mug, just like it was that noise which made him bolt awake, gasping for breath. That noise doesn't just piss him off. It disturbs him.

"Was it a nightmare," I ask, quietly, "or a memory, Trip?"

Finally, he breaks the eye contact and clenches his jaw.

"What happened?"

"Go back inside." He flicks his hand towards the door. "Leave me alone."

"Just answer me instead of—"

He snaps, head whipping around to fix his gaze on me again. "Did you want to leave the City?"

This time, his anger does faze me. A grim look has entered his eyes as they glean my face, scanning me for a reaction. Are you sure you want to play this game? his eyes ask. Because I'm really fucking good at it.

No, I don't want to play this game. Not with Trip. Like a deer frozen in headlights, I stare at him. "I just asked you a quest—"

"Why should I answer your questions when you won't answer mine?"

I shiver as another gust of wind washes over us. A leaf skids across the porch and snags on my pajama bottoms. I look away.

"If you're not going to start talking, Ashford, go inside."

"You know we had to leave the City. Otherwise, Government probably would have—"

"Don't act stupid. That's not what I meant and you know it."

Huffing, I fumble with the sleeve of my coat and shift my weight from one leg to another. Trip watches me like a hawk, eyes prying me open. I can feel it, and I hate it. It's scaring me. "I liked where I lived," I say finally. "I liked my home. I liked the people I worked with at Withorn hos—"

"That's not an answer."

"I am answering."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes. I wanted to leave the City."

Trip shakes his head.

"Listen, you can think what you want, but—"

"I think you're a fucking liar."

"Excuse me?"

"Did he even ask you if you wanted to leave?"

Entire body going rigid, my mouth clamps shut.

Trip's gaze slides over me, head to toe. And a terrifying realization begins to sink in: he sure as hell can see through me. He can read me like a book. He's been reading me like a book, and those pale eyes just keep prying me open, a sensation similar to having my clothes peeled off, little by little, exposing me to the cold more and more.

He already knows the answer to all his questions. He can see it. He just wants to hear me say it.

He cocks his head, grinds out the words: "Did he ask if you wanted to be a nurse?"

And I'm moving towards the door. "I'm done talking about this."

Quick as lightening, lithe as a cat, Trip steps in my way. "I'm not."

"Let me by."

"Answer me."

Vehemently, I shake my head.

"How long did it take for you to learn to hide it, Ashford? Did anyone notice?"

My eyes—stinging now—snap up and drill into Trip's.

"Did your father notice?" he growls, eyes boring down on me, making me feel so small, so defenseless. "What about your instructors in college? Or your boss?"

I'm breathing in this freezing air too fast through my nose, and it's making my sinuses start to ache. My nails are digging into my palms. I'm clenching my fists too hard. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I see how you react to blood."

Quickly, I avert my head.

"You're a little too fucking squeamish to be cut out as a nurse."

"I am not squeamish." My voice is shaking.

"You wouldn't even look at those Force agents at the apartments. You wouldn't even look at those men in your home. You had me pull over so you could puke on the side of the road."

"I was being ripped from my home. You blew a man's head off right in front of me."

"I blew a man's head off in front of Dax, and he didn't get nauseous. You're supposed to be a fucking nurse, Ashford."

"It's cold out here. Let me by." I attempt to side step him.

But Trip holds his ground. "You want to know what I think?"

I dip my head, chin dropping, automatically.

"I think Daddy made all these suggestions," Trip says, taking a step forward, towering over me. "Shipping you off to Withorn, buying you a fucking two-bedroom house, sending you off to college, having you do volunteer work in the E.R., landing you a job as a transplant nurse. I bet you just sat there, with your chin down—" hot fingertips grab a hold of my chin and snap my head back up "—and let him run your whole fucking life. But the medical gene skipped over you, Ashford. You can't convince me nursing was your choice. You can't stand being around blood and death."

"I'm not like you, Triple Threat. I'm normal." With tears burning in my eyes, I set a savage glare on him and smack his hand away. Satisfaction wells up inside me when he presses his mouth into a hard line. Yes, I might not be able to see through his mask, but I know what ticks him off. He hates being reminded that he's different, and I grate it into him. "Maybe Government didn't teach you this, but it's human to be uncomfortable around blood and death. I had to learn to push past it to do my job. And now I do fine."

For a while, there's only the sound of the wind-chimes clamoring together. The wet trails my tears make as they cut down my face are cold, and Trip's eyes, which are unmovingly glued to me, are even colder. All life saps out of them.

I was expecting rage. But his voice is emotionless when he finally speaks.

"Don't call me that."

"What? Triple Threat?" Flicking a tear from my cheek, I hiss, "Why not? That's your name."

"It's not a name. It's a label."

I stop, staring up at him.

As if in surrender, he opens his hands at his sides, and slowly—steps fluid—he starts around me. "I'm done. You can go inside." He's backing down.

In an instant, I know I've hurt him. I didn't know I could.

My anger crumbles apart. And without it around to buffer the blow, the sudden stab of shame hits me like a knife to the gut. I bite down on my bottom lip and struggle to fight the tears blurring my vision. Fleetingly, glancing at the door, I think of going back inside. The way is clear. It would be easier to leave and slip back under the blankets and forget about everything. But I can't bring myself to do it.

Instead, I turn around.

Trip is standing by the porch railing, looking across the Bay, where the City has transformed into a blazing string of lights in the nighttime. He's shoved his hands in his pockets, a sure sign of closing himself off from anymore conversation. I step forward anyway.

One step, and the desperate grip I have on myself slips. My chest seems to cave under pressure. Tears break loose. With numb feet, I blindly move towards him. Closer, closer. And when I'm close enough, without pausing to question it, I slam against Trip's back—causing him to jolt in surprise and swing his head around.

I let my cheek fall against his shoulder blade. "I'm sorry." My voice cracks. "I didn't mean any of that. I'm just... angry... and... afraid... and..." A sobbing breath quakes up my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

I've gone insane.

But I haven't gone insane enough to think Trip will attempt to comfort me. I know better. I just pray he doesn't shrug me off and make me cry alone and cold. He hurt me too. He tore me open. The least he can do is allow me to make a fool of myself and cry here.

A few tense, silent seconds pass.

Trip drops his head, breath clouding in a sigh.

And, like a balance tipping over to another side, the air plunges—dropping my stomach along with it. The world rolls. Starts to vibrate, as if alive. Builds. Sparks like static around him. Charging the atmosphere, flaring through my body, causing my skin to flush with heat, my pulse to instantly double. And, suddenly, I am fixated on his breathing, each rise and fall of his shoulder against my cheek.

I don't know when I stopped crying, but I have.

"It was a memory," Trip says.

Wide-eyed, I lift my head just a tad to look up at him, over his shoulder.

"He was supposed to be alone, but he wasn't. His wife was upstairs when she heard the gunshot. I found her in the kid's room."

My lips part, but I don't speak.

Trip turns his head away, rolling the shoulder I'm not leaning against, trying to loosen the tension that keeps washing over him. I can almost hear it—electricity, crackling and seething through his veins. "It doesn't fucking matter. What's done is done. Certain things just trigger shit to replay in my head."

"So, when you smashed the coffee mug...?"

"I told you it wasn't intentional."

I didn't understand at the time.

One of us sighs. Or both. I can't tell.

Trip tilts his head towards me, dropping his eyes to the side to look at me in his periphery. His voice returns in a whisper, a little raspy. "What are you afraid of?"

"Everything."

"Are you afraid of me?"

Especially you, Trip. "Sometimes you can be scary."

Trip doesn't say anything.

"What are you afraid of, Trip?"

Drawing a breath, he rolls his shoulder again. Every atom in the air seems to sizzle, disrupting my perception of time. It feels like seconds, it feels like forever before he speaks. "Who do you think I'm really a duplicate of? My Original? Or Government?"

For a moment, my mind gropes the dark for an understanding. "What do you mean?"

"You said before there wasn't a difference between me and them."

I rack my brain, trying to remember, and the argument we had in Dax's computer room springs to mind. I did say that, right before he threatened to break my arm. I actually said there was absolutely no difference between him and Government. "I didn't mean that," I say. "I was angry."

"It's fine. I don't see much of a difference either." Trip huffs, unsteadily. His voice comes more husky. "I don't know who I am, and I'm running out of time."

"How so?"

Tense, he turns his head again, locks his metallic eyes on me. His tone is almost warning. "Evette."

And I realize my fingers are clutching the back of his shirt. What am I doing?

A shock-wave—deep and warm—fires through my body, jolting me. My fingers spring open. I stagger back. Connection lost, the electricity in the air and in my bloodstream dies instantly. The wind whips and snatches away all warmth from my body, tossing my hair, shocking me. The whole world comes rolling back into place. The wind-chimes are clamoring. The leaves are skidding. The trees are creaking.

Trip is half-turned, staring at the floorboards between us.

Humiliated, confused—mentally screaming at myself, what the hell was I thinking?—I look all around the porch, not sure where to settle my gaze. The tears are back.

Slowly, Trip lifts his eyes in a glance. "You're shaking."

I am. All over.

"We should go inside," he says.

I nod.

But for a moment, neither one of us moves. There's something hanging in the air, something heavy weighing over us, something that he's thinking and needs to say. I sense it.

Trip shifts, still staring at the floorboards. "It won't be long," he mutters, "before this is over."

I blink at him.

"Next time Government won't underestimate me like they did at the apartments. They'll crunch down harder, especially after that video."

I shake my head. "What are you saying?"

"I knew what it meant when I left. I know how this ends." His eyes turn to flicker over me, as if trying to read if I understand. "I didn't desert Government thinking I would survive it."

He made a choice. He knew the consequences. That's what he'd said in the parking garage. But I didn't know he thought those consequences were inevitable.

The tendons in my jaw stop working, allowing my mouth to drop open. I feel like I've been hit in the chest, and now the tears are coming more readily. "How can you—"

"All I want is my file." The second the words leave his mouth, he drops his eyes. And I can't tell if he's speaking more to me or himself. "I need to find my Original. I need to know who he is. I need to figure out who I am." He pauses. Tilting his head, he looks up at me again. "It's hard to figure that out when you've been told who you are all your life."

I close my lips, searching him through the dark again. For a moment, he searches me too.

Then he moves towards the door. "Let's go inside before you fucking freeze to death."

And after a moment's hesitation, I follow him. Even though, part of me doesn't want to go inside. Not after so much has been said, not when so much is going unsaid.

Not when he just admitted he's on a suicide mission.