"Let's say our overlords have the bad timing," he says, though he wonders how much of it is their fault anymore. When it was just a script running in their heads, preparing them for whatever launch sent them back through the fountain, you could blame a lot on the Observers. Now it might just be the usual things. Giant plates of dirt slapping together miles under the ground, or whatever.

It's about as good for his blood pressure as sudden shots to the ribs.

"You here with Frank," he asks, watching a loose piece of rail rattle on the stairs down the hall.