Then a black flash. The cat – Midnight – launches up off Mother’s shoulder. Bounds over two roofs, clang clang thud, and hits the roach-rat like a fuzzy cannonball.

Mookie can’t see what becomes of the roach-rat. But he hears its trill scream. Hears the sound as the cat feasts. Crunch crunch crunch.

“See?” Mother says. “Anyway. That house over there, that’s Burnsy’s place. Be nice. He’s prickly. Probably on account of his skin and all.”

Skelly gives Mookie a look. He averts his gaze and walks forward, guilt dogging his heels like a starving hound.

Mookie knocks. Whonnnng, whonnnng.

The walls may be wooden pallets, but the door isn’t a door at all – it’s an upside-down car hood. A racecar hood, number 57 painted in red letters. Freshly painted, too – though the fresh paint fails to conceal the bumps and pocks of rust beneath.

Inside, the sound of a chain rattling.

The door opens out. Mookie steps back, but he’s too slow – it clips his chin. His teeth clack together over his tongue. He tastes blood.

He turns, spits a line of red on the stone.

And when he turns back, there’s Steve Lister.

Burnsy.

Mookie’s not a man given over to much guilt. In his line of work, guilt is a boat anchor around the ankle, a too-full colostomy bag hanging from the hip. It’s a burden. A does-nothing-for-you-but-slow-your-ass-down burden. Guilt will make you hesitate. Shame makes you weak. And Mookie’s tough. Tough like an anvil.

But this – the man’s skin. His body.

He’s like a giant walking third-degree burn. Blisters everywhere. Lobster flesh stretched taut. Burnsy’s wearing a white I HEART NYC T-shirt soaked through with custardy stains.

The hair is a forest of charred stubs.

Big round unblinking eyes stare out.

The muscles around the mouth pull a pair of lips made of scar tissue into something resembling a scowl. A grim rictus of displeasure.

“You.”

That’s all Steve – Burnsy – says. You.

“Yeah.” That’s all Mookie can say in response.

“Die in a fire,” Burnsy says. “Blood-pumper.”

The hood slams shut with a clang.

Skelly says, “Hey, I guess you two know each other.”

“You guess right.”

“I’m also using my powers of perception to suss out that this crusty cat is not your biggest fan.”

Mookie growls. “Well, shit. You must be psychic.”

“What’s the score?”

“I’m the one who killed him.”

“… Oh.”

He steps back. Pounds on the car hood. “Lemme in, Lister. I need to talk.”

From inside: “Name’s Burnsy now. Don’t know any Lister.”

“I got a favor to ask.”

Now Burnsy’s laughing. The kind of laugh where every time you try to stop, you just laugh harder. Like you’re laughing in church and just can’t quit. The funniest joke among the living and the dead.

“Do I wanna know how you killed him?” Skelly asks.

“In a fire.”