She shook her head. The image didn't waver. Her father was pulling her forward, extending her arm, carefully looping the watch around her wrist.

She knew it wasn't really a gift. It was a down payment. It was a token offered in exchange, some half-assed gesture that was supposed to make up for the things he'd done to her all those years ago, the things he was going to do right now, the things—

Her father leaned forward and kissed some spot just above the eyes that Lenie Clarke couldn't shut. He patted the head that Lenie Clarke couldn't feel. And then, smiling—

He left her alone.

He moved back down the hall, out of the kitchen, leaving her to play.

The vision dissipated. The Strip rushed in to fill the hole.

Amitav glowered down at her. "You are mistaken," he said. "I am not your father."

She scrambled to her feet. The ground was muddy and saturated, close to the waterline. Halogen light stretched in broken strips from the station up the beach. Bundled motionless bodies lay scattered on the upper reaches of that slope. None were nearby.

It was a dream. Another— hallucination. Nothing real.

"I am wondering what you are doing here," Amitav said quietly.

Amitav's real. Focus. Deal with him.

"You are not the only—person to have washed up afterward, of course," the refugee remarked. "They wash up even now. But you are much less dead than the others."

You should've seen me before.

"And it is odd that you would come to us like this. All of this was swept clean many days ago. An earthquake on the bottom of the ocean, yes? Far out to sea. And here you are, built for the deep ocean, and now you come ashore and eat as if you have not eaten for days." His smile was a predatory thing. "And you do not wish your people to know that you are here. You will tell me why."

Clarke leaned forward. "Really. Or you'll do what, exactly?"

"I will walk to the fence and tell them."

"Start walking," Clarke said.

Amitav stared at her, his anger almost palpable.

"Go on," she prodded. "See if you can find a door, or a spare watch. Maybe they've left little suggestion boxes for you to pass notes into, hmm?"

"You are quite wrong if you think I could not attract the attention of your people."

"I don't think you really want to. You've got your own secrets."

"I am a refugee. We cannot afford secrets."

"Really. Why are you so skinny, Amitav?"

His eyes widened.

"Tapeworm? Eating disorder?" She stepped forward. "Cycler food not agree with you?"

"I hate you," he hissed.

"You don't even know me."

"I know you," he spat. "I know your people. I know—"

"You don't know shit. If you did—if you really had such a hard-on for my people as you call them—you'd be bending over backwards to help me."