"God bless you, Fingers! Look! Look at that!" He pulled Fingers to the little window, and together they looked out upon the river, shimmering gloriously under a sun-filled sky of blue.

"Two thousand miles of it," he breathed.

"Two thousand miles of it, running straight through the heart of that world we both have known! No, you're not old, Fingers.
The things you used to know are calling you again, as they are calling me, for somewhere off there are the ghosts of Lost City, ghosts--and realities!" "Ghosts--and hopes," said Fingers.
"Hopes make life," softly whispered Kent, as if to himself.

And then, without turning from the window, his hand found Fingers' and clasped it tight.

"It may be that mine, like yours, will never come true.