“Here,” Beano said, and set something on the counter. I turned back. It was a little box, covered in dark red velvet and lined in black satin. Ranked neatly on the satin were six bone needles, their broad ends still flanged and rough and recalling the joint they’d once been part of, their long points polished bright. “Do you know what these are for?” Beano asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to know?”

I swallowed, because I couldn’t help it, even though I knew he’d see me do it. “No.”

He slammed the cash drawer and I jumped. He clenched his hands around the edge of the counter; the muscles in his forearm showed like rope. “Someday,” he said, “maybe I’ll show you.”

“Does that mean I can use the phone today?”

Beano smiled slowly. “Sure. Sure you can.” It’s possible to miss things you never had. Pay phones, desk phones, cellular phones, hot lines to Russia — they’re taken for granted in the old movies. Whatever it took to get a phone installed in those golden days, it must not have been as complex as the City’s system of influence, blackmail, and graft. And it must have resulted in something better than A.A. Albrecht’s collection of scratchy party lines.

The phone was on the wall of a room behind the shop, where the extra stock was stored. The thing on the front of the rack was made of paper-thin black leather and lined with rose-colored silk. The material was so light that it hung shapeless, unidentifiable. A garment, probably. But thin leather cords hung from it at intervals, and a strand of wire coiled down from one side. I tried not to look at it as I listened to the ringing of the phone on the top floor of Sherrea’s building. Eight rings. If no one answered — well, I could try again later. But that’s not how I felt. My pass with Beano seemed to have used up all my insouciance; suddenly it was desperately important to hear Sherrea’s voice, even if it was telling me to go to hell.

And at last, the life-giving click. “Eyeah?” Not one of her neighbors, but Sher herself. She sounded gritty beyond what the noisy connection would account for. Of course, I’d woken her; it was barely past noon.

“Sher? It’s Sparrow,” I half shouted into the tube.

“Mmh? Whaisit?”

“I need a reading.”

“Ah, shit. Whattaya think, I took a Hippocratic oath?” There was a moment’s pause before she said, “Call me when the moon’s out.”

“Sher—” My mouth opened to dicker, to offer her all the inducements, mythical and real, I could call to mind. In that moment, they seemed frail and faded. I shut my mouth and tried again, and found myself saying, “Sher… please?”

There was another crackling pause. “What’s wrong?” Alarm and suspicion mixed in the words, with suspicion leading.

“I just woke up on the river flats. Between now and nine-ish last night, I have a big gap where my life used to be.”