Sharp tongue and radiant throat came from the darkness. Montag could not see him, though he felt no need to. A sixth sense was enough, the undoubted resolution his Captain was at least there, beside him, was enough.

Like the Mechanical Hound, Montag did not need to turn to sense the prickly sensation of eyes against his back.

He very much had things to hide. Everyone did, and he was no different. They both produced magnetic fields—invisible, but a strong, pulling force—either attracting or repelling, and he, frankly, found himself wanting to repel.

Captain... Captain. Beatty. Oh. Oh, he was a fool. He was a fool. How could he be caught so easily?

Kerosene clung to him like soot, soot clinging like kerosene. Gone was Montag, replaced by a fake, solidified, censored version of himself, a version of himself he didn't quite recognize. A book was tucked under the crook of his arm, and a hose pressed into his back. You, Beatty, too, stood behind him, cheeks pinched pink and an ever-dawning smile cracking your lips.

" Why, " said Montag, quietly, " I suppose you've caught me. "