“Hey, man,” he said, and opened the fridge.

I smelled him. Woody. “There’s more rice and beans.”

“Cool. How’s Blithe?”

“He’s all right, sleeping. He went out to walk the dogs with me.”

“Sweet.”

I took my wine into my room, practically a cupboard. It was tiny and yet, once Aiden and Blithe had descended, it had become my snug refuge. I put on some ambient music and stretched out on my bed.

Soon after, Aiden crashed into my room.

“Pen! Pen! He’s unconscious. What the fuck. We need to call—”

“What?”

Aiden’s eyes were large with alarm. “I don’t have service in your fucking apartment.”

I ran outside through the Witch’s room, through a pool of smoke.

The EMTs only let one of us ride with Blithe, and Aiden’s silence forced me to volunteer. As they were strapping Blithe onto the gurney, they’d asked me what he ingested, and I told them that he’d left his dinner untouched and was only out of eyesight when he’d gone to pee.

“Medications,” the EMT asked.

“Testosterone,” I replied.

The Witch pressed a stone into my hand as we headed out into the sirened night. Had he tried to kill himself and then listened to me blabber about other deaths? I tried to focus on the tiniest details, the shaved back of the driver’s head, the still trees outside that were not experiencing any major upsets.

“You have to take him to Poncy,” I said, jolting out of one form of panic and into another. “He’s trans, and the last thing he needs is typical medical establishment bullshit.”

The driver shook his head and made a jerky U-turn at the next light.

I didn’t tell the EMT—he was stuck in the fluorescent realm of emergency medicine—but people don’t generally try to kill themselves within the first few days in the Shadowlands.

A new Operatrix met me in the waiting room. This one wore a long white robe and black platforms, a nightlife monk. I bet they didn’t have a Gram addiction and attachment issues.

“Hello, Pen.” A kind hand on my back.

“We at the Rhiz want you to let us know if there’s anything you need. Blithe has insurance through his parents and through us. However, because Rhiz members were responsible for at least part of Blithe’s deteriorating mental state, we cannot cover Blithe’s medical expenses if this was a suicide attempt. Liability and such. We access Blithe’s medical records through more unofficial channels, and we ask that you refrain from mentioning the Rhiz in any correspondence with medical personnel. All right?”

I was annoyed that this person was so benevolent.

“Can you get them to turn off the TV? I can’t deal with the news and this real news.”

The nightlife monk bowed.

“Also, will you explain why our old Operatrix is gone?”

“We decide when to go out missions based on our own individual needs and capacities,” they said, and their outline faded.