Because neither Theo nor Sher would know, and because Frances might not remember, I said, “Dana’s.” My voice seemed to come from the other side of town.

Frances reached down and almost, but not quite, touched the darkened end of the tail of hair. “And whose is that?”

“I’ll never know, will I?” I said, looking up at her. “Unless I go and see?”

Her hand drew back sharply. “No. He can sit like a spider in the middle of his web and starve, or thrive, or whatever he wants to do. You aren’t going, I’m not going, nobody’s going.”

I picked up the box lid and held it out to her. “Then he’ll come here, won’t he? Would that be better?”

“How did he know?” Theo asked.

“We weren’t a secret,” I said, my voice cracking. “Somebody takes the cucumbers to market, exchanges a little community news, it gets overheard or passed on — he’s probably known for weeks.”

“I’ll go,” said Frances, her mouth tight.

I turned my face up to her again. “But you weren’t invited.”

I watched her eyes change as she realized I was right. The box bearing my name, the threat to my friend. “You can’t,” she said, as she’d said at Del Corazón. “You can’t. She might not even be alive by now, for Christ’s sake.”

“Again, there’s only one way to find out.” I put the lid carefully on the box. I had dreamed of Dana. Of the Ten of Swords, meant for me. Maybe this was the meaning of all that hurrying.

“We need another damned plan,” said Sherrea.

“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘we.’ I don’t need one to get in; this time I know he’s expecting me. He’ll probably leave a light on.”

“Wait, wait.” Frances dropped cross-legged on the floor and jammed her fingers into her hair. “What do you want to accomplish?”

I thought about it, and for a wonder, they kept quiet and let me do it. “I want to get Dana out. If you’re asking what I’d like for my birthday, hell, I’d like to make it possible for Theo to go back. And I’d like to keep Tom Worecski from ever doing this again.”

“Then you’ll have to kill him,” said Frances.

“Will I? You’re the expert.” I felt bad when I saw the color go out of her face. I hadn’t meant it to hurt.

“Sparrow,” Sher said suddenly in a terrible voice. “What did you dream?”

I tried to recite it as fairly, as clearly as she had hers, but she’d had a more coherent original to work from. She closed her eyes partway through, and drew her knees up and rested her forehead on them when I was done. “Oh,” she said, muffled. “Oh, no. I’ve blown it. We’ve run out of time. I’m sorry,” she said, and raised her head. She was red-eyed. “You don’t know anything, because I started too late, and now it has to be done whether you’re ready or not. It’ll kill you. Oh, what’s the fucking date?”