They listen with more patience than I would have, there in that underground garage surrounded by the ghosts of privilege. Beckett seems upset his fears are founded, that his father was the creator of the Sick.

"But not in the way you think." I squeeze his hand, still in mine. "This is a gift, or meant to be. Solo turned it into the means to make the world into what she wanted."

I let him brood, turning to Socrates. "The disk."

He nods. "You mentioned that. Just ...