I took a cab. There was a flash house in the East End that Nadine frequented, with cheap mecks (and sometimes real, illegal alcohol) served on weekdays. It was in a rough part of II-6, an area notorious for being one of the only safe places for voyants to hang out: even Gillies didn’t like to go there.

A huge bouncer guarded the door, wearing a suit and hat. He waved me through.

It was dark and hot inside. The space was small, cramped, packed with sweating bodies. A bar ran the length of one wall, serving oxygen and mecks from different ends. To the right of the bar was a dance floor. The people were mostly amaurotic, hipster types in tweed trousers, tiny hats, and brightly colored neckties. I had no idea what I was doing here, watching amaurotics jump around to deafening music, but that was what I wanted: to be spontaneous, to forget the real world.

Nine years I had spent adoring Nick. I would make it a clean break. I wouldn’t allow myself to stop and feel.

I went to the oxygen bar and perched on a stool. The bartender looked me over, but didn’t address me. He was voyant, a seer—he wouldn’t want to talk. But it didn’t take long for someone else to notice me.

There was a group of young men at the other end of the bar, probably students from USL. They were all amaurotic, of course. Few voyants made it to University level. I was just about to order a shot of Floxy when one of them approached me. Nineteen or twenty, he was clean-shaven and a little sunburned. Must have been to another citadel for his year abroad. Scion Athens, perhaps. He wore a cap over his dark hair.

“Hey,” he said above the music. “You here by yourself?”

I nodded. He took a seat beside me. “Reuben,” he said, by way of introduction. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Mecks,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He motioned to the bartender, who clearly knew him. “Blood mecks, Gresham.”

The bartender’s brow was creased, but he kept his silence as he poured my blood mecks. It was the most expensive of the alcohol substitutes, made with cherries, black grapes, and plums. Reuben leaned in close to my ear. “So,” he said, “what are you here for?”

“No real reason.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend?”

“Maybe.” No.

“I just broke up with my girlfriend. And I was thinking, when you walked in—well, I thought stuff I probably shouldn’t think when a pretty girl walks into a bar. But then I thought a girl as pretty as you would have a boyfriend with her. Am I right?”

“No,” I said. “Just me.”