Ma’am wasn’t even her name. He was no good. Something in his skull was too wary, and besides, she didn’t want to be sexist. She turned away from him, darted down another block, across another street.

Ahead, a woman. Her vermillion coat swayed in a gust of chilly wind.

Headed toward someplace familiar. Yes, this was Bruen Street. Dancing lived in this place, and music, a song of writhing bodies and bitter drinks. Fulki was here, flashing smiles and scowls, both deserved. Neon lights glowed blue—no, pink!

No, maybe magenta.

And what Bryant had said four nights ago about colors didn’t matter—no one ever listened to an empty peanut butter jar left abandoned on a bathroom floor.

Magenta was alive. The color was real.

19

Most standing tables at Pandora’s Aquarium stood bare tonight, while dozens of dancers writhed on the dance floor, desperate for heat against November’s chill. Few had been dancing last time Yaya stopped by, the music more sedate. Pandora’s Aquarium must have opened right at sunset to be this rambunctious so early.

Fulki manned the bar, same as last Saturday, her eyes smiling bright in her dark face, but her mouth worked only for patrons. Until Yaya approached the bar, they wouldn’t speak, and she had no money. She was here by Magenta’s pull, nothing more.

That didn’t stop others from approaching her. “Where’ve you been, pretty love?” Fluffy Hair asked. “You slipped off last week without a goodbye.” Their face was all pearly teeth and bright brown eyes and a nose that crinkled in a cute way. They wore a studded black vest and maroon pants.

“I’m slippery,” Yaya said. She then slipped toward the overcrowded dance floor and set eyes on people she’d never seen before.

But wouldn’t someone here know her face? She had been plastered on the TV screen for twenty seconds, and she was probably showing up in newspapers, online articles, social media. Most people ignored all that, but not everyone.

Odds suggested at least one person here had seen her. She wasn’t going to make this work.

Doc was right this morning—Yaya should have taken Magenta and run.

But where? And for what? Yaya had never planned a future. Surrender would be easiest. At least someone would get what they wanted. An ABP agent, an executive, some Frankenstein in a gas mask.

No, these were the stones again, crushing her mind at full force. Life couldn’t take the whole blame for them either. If ABP wanted half the rights to Yaya’s body, then they had to accept half the blame for laying these stones, too. The double-zero virus, chimeras, Sibs—all their fault. They’d sung a dismal song in convincing Yaya she had no future.

She wouldn’t follow their tune one more minute.