Marina is the hardest to find. If it wasn’t for her sporadic phone calls to Ella over the last few months, it might have taken me weeks to track her down. When I would ask her about Marina, Ella would always get quiet. She said Marina didn’t seem like herself. That she seemed paranoid. Angry.

I find her navigating a speedboat between deserted islands in the South Pacific. Her face is sunburned, her wavy hair crisped straight from salt water, and there are deep bags under her eyes. I get the feeling that she’s been alone for a while—I recognize the signs; I’ve seen them in myself. Her lips move when she’s not talking, her hands shake, her eyes don’t always stay focused.

We were raised in a war, and now—now we’re free. Everyone is handling it differently.

When I first appear to her, she doesn’t startle as much as the others.

“Are you really there, or have I truly gone crazy?” she asks me.

“I’m here, Marina.”

She smiles that gentle, patient smile. I’m glad to see it.

“Thank God,” she says. “You showed up at a good time.”

I don’t ask her where we’re going. She drives the boat purposefully, like she’d made this trip before. I lean back and let the spray tickle my cheeks, feel the sun beat down on my neck and shoulders.

Eventually, Marina hands me a cell phone. Our fingers brush, and I notice that she’s ice-cold.

“I saw this on the internet, and I—I couldn’t let it go,” she says.

She plays a video that she downloaded off YouTube. Of course I recognize the scene. It’s the mountain in West Virginia, or what’s left of it. Really, it’s a crater filled with scorched rubble, the end result of our bombardment of that hellish place. The video was shot a week after our last battle there, when various government agencies had begun picking over the remains.

As a crew clears away some rocks, something knocks them backwards. A shape streaks upwards from the debris like a missile and disappears into the sky. The camera tries to follow it but isn’t nearly quick enough.

“We never got that fourth scar, John,” Marina says, her voice a little shaky.

“Maybe the charm was broken,” I say.

“I thought that for a while. Tried to convince myself . . .” She shakes her head. “I know the kinds of places he likes. I remember from . . . from when he told us about himself. Warm and tropical. Secluded.”

“And?”

“I found him last week,” Marina says.

Marina cuts the boat’s engine as we approach a small island. It would probably take you less than an hour to walk its entire perimeter. Just white sand and a small copse of palm trees. We drift closer, the waves tugging us in.

The guy standing on the beach with a wooden fishing pole in his hands looks frighteningly skinny. From where we are, I can see the outline of his ribs and spine. There are loose flaps of skin on his arms and belly from where the weight came off too quick. More disconcerting are the dark patches of skin, like tumors, like hardened obsidian, that make a patchwork of his skin. Maybe that’s a result of being drowned in Setrákus Ra’s lake of ooze. Another permanent disfigurement to go with the missing eye.

That is most definitely Five standing there. There’s no chance he doesn’t see us. There aren’t any other boats for as far as the eye can see. He probably heard us coming miles off.

“When I saw him die, John, all I could think was how horrible it was. To be killed in that way . . . ,” Marina begins hesitantly, staring across the shallows at Five. “But I also felt—I am not proud to admit this—I also felt there was justice there. That he had at last gotten what was coming to him.”

Marina hugs herself. Even in the sun, a light frost forms on her skin.

“I’ve prayed, John. I’ve—I’ve tried to get over it, like so many of the others have done. But the deaths haunt me. Not just Eight, but Sarah and Mark, Adelina and Crayton, all those people we saw in the mountain, the millions killed in the bombardment. And I think—how can anyone just move on? How? When there are still people like him in the world? When there is no justice?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know, Marina.”

“I’ve been coming here for a week. Sitting out here. Watching him. He knows we’re here, obviously, even if he doesn’t say anything. It’s like—it’s like he’s daring me. Or he’s asking for it. He wants me to put him out of his misery.”

Looking across the water, Five does look to be in rough shape. Left to his own devices, I’m not sure how much longer he’ll last out here.