Wolgast slept, now, on the first floor of the lodge, in a chair facing the door. They move at night, Carl had told him, in the trees. You get one shot. What were they, these things in the trees? Were they people, as Carter had once been a person? What had they become? And Amy, Amy, who dreamed of voices, whose hair did not grow, who seemed rarely to sleep - for it was true, he'd realized she was only pretending - or to eat; who could read and swim as if she was remembering lives and experiences other than her own: was she part of them too? The virus was inert, Fortes had said. What if it wasn't? Wouldn't he, Wolgast, be sick? But he wasn't; he felt just as he'd always felt, which was, he realized, simply bewildered, like a man in a dream, lost in a landscape of meaningless signs; the world had some use for him he didn't understand.