Now that she’d torn us new assholes, Kaori led the way through the parking garage and into a white electric minibus. I tucked into a solo seat by the back, and the minibus whizzed through the tunnels and out into the sunlight. Soon, the Compound disappeared in a cloud of red dust behind us.

*   *   *

Technically I was getting paid to work at the Compound as of that morning, but tell that to my malnourished bank account. I could make do with the free toiletries in my pod-house bathroom. While the others bounced around the shops of the town’s main drag, with rolling red hills in the distance, I wandered on my own. I did pop into a kitschy tourist shop, telling myself that my new coworkers would appreciate me wearing something other than a stained T-shirt I washed in my bathroom sink. I dropped a few bucks on a bright blue tee with aliens leaning out of a flying saucer to snap pictures with old-fashioned cameras, with the words “Welcome to Nevada” in neon yellow. I was about to head to the minibus to wait out the afternoon heat, when I passed a Mexican restaurant with wide windows that faced the street. Inside was the most shocking thing I’d seen since coming here.

Yusuf and Kaori sitting at a table together, laughing.

The air-conditioning and the smell of sizzling onions smacked me in the face when I stepped inside. Some of the others from the supply run were there, too, though everyone seemed to know to give Yusuf and Kaori a wide berth. Except me. Because if the half-empty cactus-shaped margarita glasses on the table meant anything, it was that I was absolutely interested in meeting buzzed Yusuf.

“You don’t look like you’re discussing Treaty City’s vast network of hydroponic farms,” I said. I plopped down on a chair without waiting for an invitation and tossed a tortilla chip from the basket between them into my mouth.

Yusuf looked at me and grinned. “Rules don’t apply to Dr. Nakamori.”

She clinked his glass with her own. “You’ve always been acutely observant.”

Yusuf had a few more buttons of his collared shirt undone than usual. The worried line of his lips from that morning was gone, with a half-smile in its place. Salt from his drink stuck to the stubble above his upper lip. Even Kaori had tossed off her beige sun visor and her tour-guide cover.

“I ask out of jealousy and very much not judgy-ness,” I said. “How many of those have you had?”

“We are working,” Kaori quipped. “Dr. Hassan and I have first-hand proof that occasional, careful application of creativity-stimulating and inhibition-relaxing substances can significantly boost our problem-solving skills.”

Yusuf nodded, suddenly serious. “We call these, ‘enhanced evaluatory sessions.’”

“Uh huh,” I deadpanned.

A waiter floated by, and I pointed to the margarita glasses, then pressed my hands together in prayer. Please.