A woman came out of a store, staring at Michael a little too intently for his liking. She stopped midstride, her eyes following him. Alarms went off in his head. It was a Tangent—it had to be. He picked up his pace and took a few quick turns to make sure she wasn’t following him. It was hard to tell with the blanket of mist hovering around him. He kept moving.

At some point, he found himself in front of a massive hotel. What stopped him was the sign out front, blazing with flashing lights.

NERVEBOX SERVICE AVAILABLE WITH ROOMS

He stood there and stared at the words. They disappeared, replaced by other advertisements and announcements and special offers, cycling through its program. Then the words he cared about flashed on again.

Coffins. At this very hotel, he could get a room and a Coffin. He knew what he had to do. He walked forward, opened the door, and stepped up to the registration desk. A friendly man with a perfect haircut greeted him, though he couldn’t hide the anxiety in his eyes. He’d been watching the NewsBops, no doubt.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

Michael took a breath and went for it. “I’d like your nicest room, with your nicest Coffin. Um, I mean NerveBox. And I need to check in right now.”

5

Michael lay on the bed in his room, staring at the ceiling. Things seemed to be working out for him today. Well, if you didn’t count the whole murderous rampage incident. He’d made it out of the World Summit and the Latvian embassy, made it through the streets of D.C., found a hotel with Coffin service, and then, the topper, been able to get himself a room with the fake identity he’d created so long ago. Using the money he’d stolen from Jackson Porter’s parents.

Someone might’ve figured it out. Maybe he was being traced. Flags might’ve been raised. But the world had much bigger problems to deal with right then. In any case, he hoped to be done, one way or another, by the time anyone could get to him.

There was a tap at the door.

For just a split second, fear spiked in his chest. But then a voice said, “Room service.” He’d ordered almost everything on the menu. He hadn’t eaten much since waking up that morning, and now it had caught up with him.

He needed to build up his strength. So he tipped the lady after she brought in the rolling cart of steaming food, then closed the door, locked it, and triggered the dead bolt. Then he dug in, starting with the bleu chips. He thought of Sarah with every bite.

6