"One."
The man didn't move.
He stood at the edge of the clearing with his hands hanging easy at his sides and glanced at the violet glow on Noah's fingertip, about as worried as somebody checking a bug on a windowsill. Then he looked past it, at Noah's face, and smiled.
"You remembered," he said. "How gratifying. Most people need a moment to reconcile what they're seeing with what they expected to see."
Noah didn't answer. He was too busy looking.
The last time he'd seen One, the kid had been small. Twelve, maybe. A narrow little face, thin wrists, a voice that hadn't dropped yet. The man standing in front of him now was taller than Noah. Broad through the shoulders, jaw gone sharp, dark hair grown long enough to tie back. He was wearing something plain and grey that looked like it had been cut for him on some other world. But the eyes were the same. Flat and calm and a little bored.
'That's not possible,' Noah thought. 'It's been months. Not ten years.'
