When I come out, he’s up and dressed in a tank top and sleep shorts, making coffee in the kitchenette. There’s a bulge in his shorts. I feel a shot of desire go through me, culminating between my legs. Even in the light of day, knowing it’s a bad idea, I’m more than half tempted to go over, push him against the wall and do it all again. I clear my throat, slide my eyes away, and take the cup when he offers it to me, sipping gratefully.

It’s real coffee. The caffeine settles into my system. They haven’t outlawed that from the city yet, even though it’s stupidly expensive to buy with the extra taxes.

“Good God, Taema, you can drink,” Nazarin says, admiringly. “If that was real alcohol, I wouldn’t be able to open my eyes today.”

Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? I play along. It’s easier this way. “So you’ve had the real stuff?” I ask, taking another sip.

“Of course I have. I haven’t always lived in this hippie ecotopia.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“I was born in Turkey, but moved to Dakota when I was eight.”

“Ah. Rural boy.” I skirt about asking him why he left Turkey. There was a nasty civil war in that area of the world at that time, though it’s stable now. Chemicals, bombs and far too many civilian deaths.

“I grew up on a farm. Might have been a little similar to how you were raised, come to think of it.”

My mouth twists, my hand hovering to the top of my scar. “Probably not quite like me.”

He raises his coffee cup in acknowledgment. His eyes dart down, but I’m not sure if he’s looking at the scar or my breasts. I feel the thrum of desire again. Get it together, I admonish myself.

“Definitely not,” he says, as if echoing my thoughts, but he’s still talking about his childhood. “I just have a little more in common with you than someone who grew up surrounded by this.” He gestures out the window at the distant skyscrapers. “We had plenty of moonshine out there. Real beer. No one out there would touch synthetic alcohol if their lives depended on it. They pride themselves on swilling the real stuff, even if they’re left with skull-splitting hangovers.”

He stops and tilts his head, his vision going distant. Seems like we’re both plagued with memories this morning. Then I realize he’s been pinged. I down the first cup of coffee and pour myself another as he listens to his auditory message.

He shakes his head to clear it and the way he looks at me makes my insides freeze.

“What is it? Is it Tila?”

“No. Not your sister. But Mia is dead.”

*   *   *