A woman stood over them. She was quite hairless, her face smooth. She wore a flesh-colored coverall so sleek it was as if she was naked. She smiled at them. Weve been expecting you.

Myra said, My God. Charlie?

Bisesa stared. Who is we?

We call ourselves the Lastborn. We are at war. We are losing. She held out her hands. Please. Come with me now.

Bisesa and Myra, still hugging each other, reached out their free hands. Their fingertips touched Charlies.

A clash of cymbals.