Marcena was still in the hospital, of course, but she was recovering fast and her spirits were good. I’d gone to visit her before driving up to Max’s. I’d run into her parents in the ICU. The Loves had been silent and anxious since their arrival, but Marcena’s rapid improvement was making them almost effervescent.

We all had to put on protective masks and gowns before going into Marcena’s room, so as to make sure we didn’t spread germs into her vulnerable new skin. Her parents left me alone with her, since she couldn’t have more than two visitors at a time.

I tiptoed into the room. Marcena’s head was shaved and bandaged; she had a fading bruise on her left cheekbone, and her body was hidden in a kind of box with sheets draped over it, to protect her new skin, but her eyes held a hint of their usual spark.

Marcena pointed out that we were matching ghouls, with our shaved heads and bruises. “We should have done this for Halloween, not for your Thanksgiving Day dinner. What was that thing that skinned me?”

“A hand-operated conveyor belt,” I said. “Didn’t you ever see it in Bron’s trailer? They use them for getting big loads on and off; it should have been tied up, but they were either careless or hoping it would do serious damage. Although they planned for you to be dumped at the landfill, as they did me—it was just Mr. William, ineffectual idiot, who took you to the golf course by mistake.”

“And Mitch was my hero, leading you to the rescue, Morrell says. The hospital is rotten not to let dogs in. I’d like to give him a big, slurpy kiss. How come you got away with less damage than me?” Her eyes might sparkle, but her speech was labored; among the paraphernalia around her bed was a morphine pump.

I shrugged awkwardly. “Luck of the draw. You took a horrible knock on the head when the forklift went over; you couldn’t maneuver the way I was able to.”

I asked if she remembered anything about her time at the factory, such as how she got clear of the falling forklift, but she said her last coherent memory was driving up behind Fly the Flag in Billy’s Miata—she couldn’t even remember who all had been present—if Aunt Jacqui had been there, or Buffalo Bill himself.

I told her I had her recording pen, but wanted to hang onto it, at least until we saw how the endless legal battles were going to shape up. “The state may try to impound it. I’ve actually put it in a bank vault to keep the Bysen mafia from stealing it out of my office, but, of course, their legal team is trying to suppress the recordings altogether.”