“I heard your emergency transmitter—then I saw the plane when I came over . . .” He trailed off, cocked his head, studying Brian. “Damn. You’re him, aren’t you? You’re that kid? They quit looking, a month, no, almost two months ago. You’re him, aren’t you? You’re that kid . . .” Brian was standing now, but still silent, still holding the drink. His tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat didn’t work right. He looked at the pilot, and the plane, and down at himself—dirty and ragged, burned and lean and tough—and he coughed to clear his throat. “My name is Brian
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