Nazarin looks a bit better than I feel, though not by much. He’s decidedly green around the gills. I want to ask him what he saw. Were his urges to kill just as strong, and if so, who did he hurt in that shared dream world?

Nazarin tips the white-coated orderly extra, and he responds with an obsequious nod. He opens the door for us and smiles, but to me it seems more of a leer. I squeeze past him, as does Nazarin, and the orderly leads us down the hallway, his perfectly coiffed hair solid as a helmet under the dim lighting. He motions toward the discreet side exit.

I brush off my arms after we leave, as if I can shed all the horror of what I’ve seen. I’m shaking, even though it’s a warm San Francisco night. I let out a breath, my ears perked for an alarm, my eyes to the sky for any unmarked hovercars to take us away. I’m grateful we made the effort to wear masks, and can only hope the orderly didn’t lean in close enough in the dim light to see the seams. They’re not something that works well in the bright light of day, but are usually reserved for costume parties or nights out on the town.

We walk along beside the garish advertisements of the Mission district. All the smiling, bright men and women seem to be cackling at me.

“We need to talk about what happened,” he said. “But not here.”

“Back to the safe house?” Though I don’t feel comfortable there, between the Chair and seeing that spread of false blood in the upstairs room.

“There’s another safe house, closer. Just around the corner. We’ll regroup there, then head back to the main one.”

He sets off, and I trail him.

*   *   *

The extra safe house turns out to be a small apartment, and it’s Nazarin’s second home. He has one that the Ratel know about, but this is a separate one, not in his name. He’ll sometimes meet his superiors here, he explains, since he can never go to the SFPD headquarters. Or he’ll come here when he wants privacy, escape. They’ll be shutting it down soon, or assigning it to someone else, since he’s moved to the new safe house to train me.

Though Nazarin has spent nights here, there’s nothing personal about it. It could be a hotel room. It’s a studio apartment, though the one room is a decent size. The bed, with cushions against the wall to make it double as a sofa, takes up a corner; a tiny kitchenette takes up a second; a bathroom another (it has a door, at least) and a wardrobe the last corner. A table and chairs are by the window, and he gestures for me to take a seat.