"I told you," he says. "I told you and I was really sure about it, and I was wrong." He falls silent again, frustrated, more than frustrated, glancing at the shadows moving over Neil's face in a rough, rhythmic blur, making him look simultaneously impossibly old and impossibly young. Like an angel, he thinks, but not like one of the perfect, radiant creatures of popular mythology. An angel from the old days, strange and a little frightening, and possessed of uncertain power.

The power to change a world.

"I'm sick of this," he says, more quiet. "I'm sick of moving around all the fucking time. I'm sick of missing you all the fucking time. I'm sick of... of having to lie to everyone about who the fuck I am."