“Why?” she asked.

“I can’t hear you. You need to use the intercom. It’s behind you there, on the back wall.”

She turned her head, to the wall behind her. She saw the small intercom. It was to the left of the outline of a door. But no doorknob, she noticed. She couldn’t open it, but someone on the outside could.

It was hard to stand—not because of pain but because she felt so light-headed. Not in a dizzy way but in that free-floating way when you had a super-good buzz and you just wanted to sit and ride a wave of euphoric feelings. Her legs felt a little wobbly, though, and she leaned against the wall as she pressed her finger on the little square green button installed underneath the speaker.

“You don’t have to keep your finger on it,” Paul said. “Just click it once.”

“Did you put this dress on me?”

“I did.”

“And my nails?”

“I did those, too.”

“Did I . . . Was I in a shower?”

“A bath,” he said. “I cleaned you up. I want you looking all nice and pretty.”

“I feel different. Like, floaty.”

“I gave you molly. Have you tried it before?”

Grace shook her head back and forth. She knew about MDMA, of course, from friends who took it at rave and EDM concerts and at clubs because it made the music sound better, made them feel so tremendously awesome and uninhibited and free to express themselves, their hidden desires.

“It will help keep you nice and relaxed,” Paul said. “Calm.”

“Calm? For what?”

Paul didn’t answer. He pressed something on the wall—a button for his intercom, she guessed—and then turned around, his back now facing her. He took a few steps forward, stopped. Grace stumbled forward, using the wall for support.

The man standing next to Paul was much older—and much shorter. And frail looking. Or maybe she thought that because he was so thin underneath his suit. The wisps of white hair were combed back wetly across a scalp peppered with what looked like age or liver spots.

“Mr. Jahed has arrived,” the man said.

“Wonderful. How’s the generator?”

“We’ll have power for another two to three hours, but you need to make this quick.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Will you stop worrying about the wildfires? Everything’s fine.”

Grace wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. Her face pressed against the cool, thick plexiglass, she looked to her right, at two small cells that were identical to the one she was in. Unlike her, the women inside—one to each room—wore what looked like hospital scrubs and were sleeping, or passed out, on their cots.

Carriers, Grace thought. Like me.

“My dear boy,” the man said to Paul. “I grew up surrounded by wildfires. They’re dangerously unpredictable, nothing to be trifled with.”

Grace looked to her left, saw two more cells, but couldn’t see if anyone was inside them.

Is this a blood farm?

“The wildfire is contained,” Paul said. “Relax.”