I know all about Crawl. The medic drone had used it on my mother to slow down her inevitable death while my family tried to raise funds to treat whatever she was dying of. It’s the same drug that they mixed with hallucinogens and fired into prisoners trying to escape the Loop. Crawl is a drug that clones used to mix with Ebb to make the hallucinatory experience feel as though it lasted longer. It slows down brain chemistry, heart rate, and the respiratory system. I nod slowly, realizing how that could hide a person from Mosquitoes and other scanning devices. Clever. But at the same time, Crawl slows the user’s perception of time right down, making every second feel as though it lasts a minute, every minute like an hour.

“Have you met Dr. P?” Day asks brightly, abruptly changing the subject and tone, as if she’d never referred to her friends who died on the way here. “You have to meet him; he’s a genius.”

Something strange is going on here, a voice pipes up inside my mind again, but I don’t have time to dwell on it as Molly continues the appreciation of the mysterious Dr. Price.

“He saved all of us,” Shion adds. “He built this place. This wonderful place.”

I look from Shion to Day to Molly, trying to hold on to this creeping feeling of dread. “Can we meet this Dr. Price?” I ask.

“I’ll take you to him,” Molly says, smiling warmly at Day and Shion, who hug Malachai and me in turn once again, and say their goodbyes before closing themselves inside their room.

This time, when Molly leads us back down to the hotel’s bar, we take an old wooden staircase that winds downward toward the sound of the galloping beat of the band. When I look over the banister I catch a brief glimpse of a silver-eyed corpse looking back at me. She scuttles away into the darkness before I can fully register her presence. An NPC … I hope.

We reenter the bar and Molly leads us to the back of the room, toward the stage where the expressionless band play soft jazz. Malachai and I follow. Some of the people in the booths, and those slowly swaying together on the dance floor, smile at us as we pass by.

We come to the last booth of the row at the back of the room, where a very old man sits alone, eyes closed, listening to the music.

“Dr. Price,” Molly says, and the man looks up at us and smiles.

Right away, I notice that this man is not like the others—he doesn’t have that faraway, dreamy look about him. He is present, sharp.

“Molly Kane, my favorite survivor,” he says brightly. “You were gone a little too long this time. I told you, never leave Purgatory for more than an hour.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Price,” she replies.