As he stood up, something caught in the corner of his eye.
His eyes moved, and he saw a woman about twenty feet away from him. Her red hair fell straight to her shoulders in the dry heat. He blinked as she approached. She wore a straight skirt and had a notebook under her arm. "Petra?" he said, frowning. It was Petra, but Petra different.
"Jon," she answered. "What happened to you?"
He looked down at himself. He was wearing a torn, dirty uniform. A prison uniform. His prison uniform!
"Arkor," said Petra, suddenly. (Her voice was higher, less sure.)
They turned. Arkor stood in the sand, his feet wide over the white hillocks. The triple scars down his face welled bright blood in the hot light.
They came together now. "What's going on?" Jon asked.
Arkor shrugged.
"What about the kids?" asked Petra.
"They're still right here," Arkor said, pointing to his head and grinning. Then his finger touched the opened scars. When he drew it away, he saw the blood and frowned. Then he looked at the City. The sun caught on the towers and slipped like bright liquid along the looping highways. "Hey," Jon said to Petra. (No, he realized; it was Petra with a handful of years lopped off.) "What's the notebook?"