"Hey, everybody!" he yells in his permanently annoying, ratty little voice. Then he climbs up next to me on the counter. I should turn him back into a weasel so I can put him in a box, wrap it in duct tape, and mail it to the General Bowen State Psychiatric Hospital. Without a supply of his icky hair product.

"I guess you haven't heard the bad news, Byron," Jamilla begins tentatively.

"Oh, indeed I have," he says. Who talks like that? "Seen it with my own eyes." Everyone gasps. "On this."

He pulls out a top-of-the-line smartphone that he's gotten from who knows where, swipes it a few times, then holds up the device with the screen facing the group.

Oh God, it's the Courtyard of Justice, where Margo's hooded figure is seen kneeling before The One.

"Put it away," I snap at him, reaching for the phone. "That's a snuff film."

"Absolutely not!" Byron shouts, tightening his grip. "They need to see it."

"You are truly horrific!" I screech, practically clawing at his hands for it. But Byron, being weaselly, is an artful dodger, and I have to attack him like a lioness to get my hands on the thing.

"Wisty," Janine says out of the blue, steely and determined as she pulls away from Whit's comforting arms. "He's right. I need to see it. What they did to her."

I exchange a defeated glance with Whit and step to another counter so I don't have to be so close to Weasel Boy. He holds the phone up triumphantly, and though I try to turn away, I can't.

In the most stomach-turning slow-motion replay I've ever seen, we watch Margo's complete disintegration by The One Who Is The One. Her hood, her clothes, the skin of her hands, her wonderful sneakers, turn gray for an instant and then she just kind of comes apart, billowing away in a puff of crematory ash.

"You see," he explains as the footage continues, "they want everyone to believe Wisty is dead. So, because of my connections high up at the Ministry of Information-my father, to be precise-I was able to hack into their system and share some truth with the world."