“It’s started already,” says Billie Youngblood. Pierrot believes her. His nose is considerably longer, but hers is as sharp as frost.

He kicks Azazello awake. The old thing hisses at him, but Pierrot kicks again. “Air’s turning, scapegoat,” says Pierrot. “Go quickly and we might save you some bones.”

Azazello tries to look bored, but his long pupils dilate all the same. “Wanna rabbit bones,” he sniffs.

“You might get dust.”

Azazello snarls and scuttles up the hill, launching at the crest. Billie and Pierrot watch, as always, at the way he turns dawn’s light oily: an angel with pigeon wings.

“Most of the newly arrived don’t remember,” says Muldoon sympathetically.

Trent looks dubious. “I want some proof.”

Muldoon hits the button, and Trent’s body slides out on a tray. His face is peaceful.

“Wow,” mumbles Trent. “Uh. Yeah, that’s… that’s me.”

“All that matters now,” says Muldoon, “is the war.”

Trent’s still slowly nodding as he signs the enlistment form. Muldoon slides the body back in, glad he didn’t check the fingernails; this was a rush job. Nobody quite knows the ratio of presumed to pronounced in the Army of the Dead, and if he can help it, nobody ever will.