Maybe it had helped, maybe not. Nightwalker’s voice had been almost lifeless when responding to Falcon’s comments and questions. Sometimes he’d called him by other names—Marci, Cat-Dancing, Knife-Edge . . . They’d made it this far—just!—but it was obvious that Nightwalker wasn’t going to make it any further without a rest. And maybe not even then. The runner had lost a lot of blood—more than Falcon thought anyone could lose and not die—and was losing still more. Falcon had to do something about that, but wasn’t exactly sure what.