"Where do you live?" he asked, and listened closely to the answer:

"Orlando."

No hint of Asian or Hindian in that voice. Back when Fischer was a kid his mom would always tell him that disasters were color-blind, but he knew better now. The kid sounded N’Am; not a ref, then. Which meant there would probably be people looking for him.

Which, in a way, was too—

Stop it.

"Orlando,” he repeated aloud. “You are lost. Where's your mom and dad?"

"Hotel." The rag pile detached itself from the pylon and shuffled closer. "Vanceattle." The words came out half-whistled, as though the kid was speaking through his sinuses. Maybe he had one of those, those — Fischer groped for the words — cleft palates, or something.

"Vanceattle? Which one?"

Shrug.

"Don't you have a watch?"

"Lost it."

You've got to help him, Shadow said.

"Well, um, look." Fischer rubbed at his temples. "I live close by. We can call from there."

There weren't that many Vanceattles in the lower mainland. The police wouldn't have to find out. And even if they did, they wouldn't charge him. Not for this. What was he supposed to do, leave the kid for body parts?

"I'm Gerry," Fischer said.

"Kevin."

Kevin looked about nine or ten. Old enough that he should know how to use a public terminal, anyway. But there was something wrong with him. He was too tall and skinny, and his limbs tangled up in themselves when he walked. Maybe he was brain damaged. Maybe one of those nanotech babies that went bad. Or maybe his mother just spent too much time outdoors when she was pregnant.

Fischer led Kevin up to his two-room timeshare. Kevin dropped onto the couch without asking. Fischer checked the fridge: root beer. The boy took it with a nervous smile. Fischer sat down beside him and put a reassuring hand on Kevin's lap.

The expression drained from Kevin's face as though someone had pulled a plug.

Go on, Shadow said. He's not complaining, is he?

Kevin's clothes were filthy. Caked mud clung to his pants. Fischer reached over and began picking it off. "We should get you out of these clothes. Get you cleaned up. We can only take showers on even days here, but you could always take a sponge bath..."

Kevin just sat there. One hand gripped his drink, bony fingers denting the plastic; the other rested motionless on the couch.

Fischer smiled. "It's okay. This is what you do when you really—"

Kevin stared at the floor, trembling.

Fischer found a zipper, pulled. Pressed, gently. "It's okay. It's okay. Don't worry."

Kevin stopped shaking. Kevin looked up.

Kevin smiled.

"I'm not the one who should be worried here, asshole," he said in his whistling child's voice.

The jolt threw Fischer to the floor. Suddenly he was staring at the ceiling, fingers twitching at the ends of arms that had turned, magically, into dead weights. His whole nervous system sang like a tracery of high-tension wires embedded in flesh.