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themselves. He had driven to Broken Hill with the outlier, Wil. A farmer had shot him. When he’d realized the wound was fatal, he’d told Wil to leave him. But Wil hadn’t wanted to. It had been one of those frustrating situations where Eliot had needed to convince Wil of something but couldn’t, because the guy was an outlier. Also, stupidly stubborn. Eliot had passed out before this was really resolved. It seemed that in the meantime, Wil had saved his life.
    He heard footsteps. He lay still until he was sure they were approaching, then began to feel around for a weapon. As Eliot saw it, there were two plausible scenarios. In one, Wil had driven away with the bareword, as Eliot had instructed, and the footsteps belonged to someone from the organization, coming to kill him. In the other, they belonged to Wil, who had been too cowardly to leave, and instead hung around hoping Eliot would wake up and tell him what to do. Either way, Eliot felt the need to shoot someone.
    The deadliest object he could see was the hat stand, which could possibly serve as a club. He tugged at the covers to free his legs. He hadn’t progressed very far with this when a man appeared in the doorway. The man had a rifle slung over his shoulder and for a second Eliot didn’t recognize him.
    “Lie down,” Wil said. He crossed the room and peered out the window.
    Eliot sunk into the pillow, crushed by the weight of his own bitter disappointment. He shouldn’t have expected any different. Wil had done nothing Eliot asked of him from the moment they met. Eliot had been foolish to think he would start now just because everything depended on it. He plucked at the blanket. “We . . . leave. Now.”
    Wil ignored him. He was looking at something outside. Eliot couldn’t tell what.
    “Listen, you . . . fuck,” said Eliot. “Woolf . . . is coming.” He tried to say more, but it degenerated into coughing. When he opened his eyes, Wil was holding a cup of water. Eliot took it. There was something different about Wil’s manner. The reason Eliot hadn’t recognized Wil before: Wil was different somehow. Eliot had the odd, discombobulating thought:
That isn’t Wil Parke.
    The Wil-person watched him drink without expression. When Eliot finished, he said, “Lie down.”
    “Have to—”
    “You’re about to pass out again,” said the Wil-person. “Lie down.”
    He felt the truth of this but fought it anyway. “Woolf.”
    “You mean Emily. Emily Ruff.”
    Oh, God
, Eliot thought.
    “Don’t think you mentioned that. You talked a lot about Woolf. But you never mentioned that I knew her. Knew her pretty well, as it turns out.”
    “I . . . can . . . explain.”
    “Yeah,” said Wil. “You’ll explain. But first, you’re going to sleep.” He hefted the rifle. “I need to shoot some guys.”
    What guys?
Eliot tried to say. But unconsciousness got him first.
    • • •
    He fell into sleep, but not far. He remembered a phone ringing in the dark. It had been a while ago. But he had been lying down, like this, feeling Broken Hill all around him. He had opened his eyes and seen curtains. A bedside clock.
Hotel
, he’d remembered.
I’m in a bed, in a hotel, in Sydney.
The phone rang and rang but he hadn’t moved in case it dissolved, revealing that he was back on that road, his face in the dirt, lying still.
    He picked up the phone. “Your wake-up call, Mr. Eliot. It’s four thirty.”
    “Thank you.” He placed the receiver back on the cradle, carefully, and it did not dissolve. He rose and drew back the curtains. Beyond was the city: the famous Sydney Opera House wreathed in light; behind that, the hulking steel bridge. A few boats on the bay, lights bobbing. These things were comforting to him, the water, the steel, because they proved it was not three weeks ago, when Broken Hill had died around him.
    He showered and dressed. A newspaper lay outside his hotel room door and he stepped over it. Downstairs, a limo idled for him, the bellhop already moving to open its door. The city’s winding streets slid by, tinted dark, then the bay, as they crossed the bridge and navigated the zoo. On a narrow road, dark waves lapped at rocks. The limousine finally drew to a halt beside a set of steep steps and the driver indicated that Eliot should ascend them.
    At the top was a colonial house. There was a terra-cotta plaza, lit by a dozen craftily concealed garden lights, with a small ornate table and chairs, and on one of these was