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272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered. Teenagers don’t have any power, not of any sort, not in your world, not in the old world. It slid off flimsily. " "What time is it?" inquired Jack. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers.
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