I complied by standing up and stumbling forward over the wet pavement. The sudden change in position made my head faint. Layla pulled me along, the knife tip jabbing. My legs still felt like they had been pounded into rubber and reattached to my hips.

When we reached the back door, she lowered the knife and dredged a key from her purse. I lurched away from her and tried to run, but fell after two steps. My shoulder, then my cheek, slammed the soaked asphalt. The pavement scraped my skin. The door swung open. It was dim inside. I felt Layla’s hands dig under me and pull me into the hallway, then slam the steel to shut us in.

Afterward, she sat there for a moment, breathing hard, her dress darkened with rain. I couldn’t hear anyone else in the gallery, and down the long hall, the spectral arches of Shoe Cathedral rose, looking from a distance like a giant spider crouched and waiting for us. I rubbed the wet grit from my cheek. It stung.

Layla stood up and walked down the hall to my old gallerina desk, dialing a number. “She’s here,” she said, then listened for a moment. “About two milligrams. I guess.”

There was another silence.

“How do I know he’s—” She sounded worried. “I don’t want to do this by myself.”

Another silence. Layla looked at the ceiling, her knuckles whitening where they clutched the receiver.

“I’m not doing this,” she said in a smaller voice.

She waited.

“Okay, but you’re coming, right?”

WHEN LAYLA CAME BACK TO me, she wore a different face. I had seen many Layla faces by now—her tender, insecure awe toward Erik, her protectiveness toward Zania, her cool scorn toward me—but this face was different. Her eyes did not seem to be looking outward at all, but focused on some inner landscape that was cold and barren, and she saw far into it, into that vast, bleak plateau. It was a terrifying face, and the hands that lifted me, yanked me toward Nelson’s office, felt as merciless as claws. I tried to speak, but she told me to be quiet, and in such a voice that I feared what she would do if I disobeyed.

I let Layla pull me down the hall, into the orange-carpeted room. Layla’s bare legs, the tiniest stubble on them, shone in the fluorescent light. Her sandaled foot accidentally kicked my ear. The whiff of the rotting coconut takeout still drifted from the trash can. Nelson’s bookcase slid aside, revealing a panel in the wall, a keypad.