Alone in his tent, Louis undresses until he's down to his underclothes and his old man's watch.

Even now, magnetism is buzzing in his skin, achingly far from Human. (Did the prior two Emissaries feel this way?)

He misses visiting his mother in summer, in the town whose name he borrowed. He misses fishing with his brother. His sister-in-law's paintings, his nephew's jokes, his niece's smile, the baby who shares his ears. Most of all, he misses returning from the lake for a meal that could only be made in their house, that could only be made by them. No one but the Yeros know the preciousness of walleye ceviche.

Louis sits with his face in his hands. They are gone, qué Diosito los tenga en su santa gloria, and he is here.

Grief and eternity ringing in his ears, his eyes lose focus, and briefly, he Sees.

His niece and nephew are playing in a yard full of fireflies. He hears Ben's laugh intermingling with his own. A loon wails in the distance, and leathery smoke curls into the air.

Louis bolts to standing.

A thousand years ago is also right now, and in this infinite heartbeat, his loved ones are dead, and they are also alive. 'Time is not linear,' sing Louis's electrons. 'You will always be with your family on a patio in July.'

The vision ends, and Louis lets out a long shaky breath, filled with awe. As he does, his feet silently lift off the ground.

He startles for a moment, then surrenders, a mad grin on his face. There are miracles at intersections. Nine and Human. Dead and alive. Lime and pike.

He leans forward for his glasses and pants and puts them on in midair, every atom in his body searing neon, and drifts out of his tent into Kepler's indigo night. Light catches on Louis's glasses as he rises, his bare feet a meter from the ground, and he tilts his head toward the stars.