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    Summary

    Five times Reiner and Bertholdt held hands, and one time they didn’t.

    Their last weekend home in Liberio, before the final intelligence briefing, before Magath’s stern words, more threat than encouragement (even Reiner had known Magath had opposed the mission vociferously and, beyond the point of professional prudence, had fought against dispatching four titans on an uncharted island without backup until he was threatened with a demotion), before the photo spread in The National Inquirer, and before the ticker-tape parade and the cheering crowds seeing them off, they had gone to a matinee at the cinema. The theatre in the internment zone was the old-fashioned kind, with a floor show and a band and a girl playing the piano in a sequined gown and a feather boa, and most of the films were old. They watched a silent film about a hypnotist who used a sleepwalker to commit heinous murders. Reiner and Bertholdt sat in the back, eating peanuts out of a striped paper bag and furtively holding hands in the dark, the first time they did it, pretending to be afraid of the fake blood and the crashing cymbals and ominous use of the zither.

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