Shen Cong brought Zhao Yang — now cooperative — on a detour to the synthetic fiber farm.

Zhao Zilong and Old Wei were waiting.

Father and daughter looked at each other. Neither of them found words right away.

Shen Cong and Old Wei stood to the side. Old Wei seemed to want to say something. Shen Cong had no interest in conversation — what he wanted was information, and then to collect Zhao Yang's body and get back. He'd left Great Vajra and the Four-Legged Dragon at the edge of the battle zone, and something in him was unsettled.

His bond with Great Vajra had deepened considerably in recent weeks. He could feel, at a remove, whether the vehicle was under threat. Right now everything registered as normal — and yet the unease sat there, persistent.

Nearby.

Zhao Zilong touched her father's bandaged stumps and cried. "I'm sorry, Father."

Zhao Yang had a thousand things to say. They all dissolved into a single exhale. "Ah."

He tried to raise what was left of his arm toward her face — to wipe the tears — and couldn't complete the motion. He looked at her instead. "Dry your eyes. Don't grieve. We're together again, aren't we."

"I'm sorry. I was too willful."

"You weren't too willful. I'm the one who took the wrong path." His expression had gone flat and inward — regret layered under regret. "I couldn't hold my own line. I set you a bad example. I wanted to save you. I thought I could save you. I never imagined it would come to this. Your mother died, and I couldn't bear to lose you too."

Zhao Zilong took hold of his hand. "Everyone loses what holds them up. That's the law the world operates by. The ones who face it with courage — they don't run."

"I ran, before," Zhao Yang said. "Not this time."

Zhao Zilong nodded hard.

He made one more effort to lift his arm toward her face. The motion failed again. In the end she was the one who brought his hand up and pressed…