The dock dipped. Water inched past the edges of her boots, bringing a poison-green snake with it. The snake slithered around her ankles, tail flicking in and out of the black. Dorothy kicked it loose, swearing as the pest disappeared below.

Chandra’s words tripped through her head:

You’ve met three times . . . Once, after the ball, and then again at that super-shady bar near the Fairmont, and then, you know, when you saved him. . . .

She ran a hand back through her hair. How could this be true? She knew how to fly a time machine, but she wasn’t currently in possession of one. The Black Crow—the last time machine, as far as she knew—was currently locked up in the Fairmont, guarded by an army of Cirkus Freaks and Mac Murphy himself. There was no way she could get her hands on it without getting herself killed.

Waves lapped against the dock. Wind rustled the white tree branches. Dorothy hunched down in her cloak, trying to quiet the frustration she felt building inside of her. Every time she thought she was on the verge of discovering something new, she seemed to slam into another wall, another obstacle. It was infuriating.

She shook the wet from her boots and kept moving. Dante’s bar was just ahead. Freaks didn’t drink at Dante’s, Dorothy knew, so she might actually be safe there. For a little while, at least. Long enough for a drink, maybe even some food. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it had been a full day since she’d eaten anything.

She glanced around to make sure no one was following her. The dock was empty, the water surrounding it still. Satisfied, she found the window that acted as the bar’s entrance and climbed inside.

Grease stains crawled up the walls, and the air held the heavy smells of fried fish and beer. Dorothy’s stomach rumbled painfully. She pulled her hood low over her face, hoping no one would notice her as she made her way toward the cheery sounds of voices and laughter.

Dante’s was a cramped, dirty space filled with mismatched tables and chairs, with strings of half-busted café lights hanging from the low ceiling, and a few vinyl booths shoved up against the walls. A boxy television set from 1985 sat behind the bar but, for now, it remained dark.

Dorothy waited at the bar, her hood pulled low, white hair carefully hidden, until a shortish, youngish guy wearing a baseball hat made his way over to her.

“What can I get you, darling?” he asked.

“Hooch?” Dorothy said, remembering the clear drink Zora had ordered for her the first time she’d come here. “And food, if you have it.”

“Kitchen’s closed right now,” the bartender said apologetically. “But we got a shipment of protein bars from the Center, and a few bags of black-market chips if you’re interested.”