Lou slammed on the brakes at a red light, practically making a trampoline of them, and I jerked forward against the seat belt, smacking my hand against the dashboard. I stared at her, and she rubbed her hand across her face, trying to smooth out the anger. “Drunk again,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, well.” I stared out the window. It wasn’t even noon. This day would never end. When we passed by dark buildings shimmering in the heat, the glare made a mirror of my window. Black smudges under my eyes. Lips chewed to bits. Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail, an efficient style that wasn’t doing my face any favors. “I don’t think you can blame me for that today.”

After that, we rode for a while in silence. Lou nudged us onto the freeway, and I stared up at each shrub-covered overpass, refusing to break the silence. It stayed frosty between us through the golden twin-dragon gate, past the street vendors hawking yellow, red, and pink fake flowers on the sidewalk, past abandoned concrete curly-maned lions protecting no one, until Lou parked, not waiting for me to get out of the car before she was halfway through the gates to Chinatown.

I scampered after her, catching the full force of the gasoline fumes in my mouth where it mixed with the gin and made a not-unpleasant sweet taste on my tongue, and I wondered if it had even bothered her at all. Last night. Ellen. Any of it.

She led me through a square bookended by pagodas, one red, one green, decorated with sun-bleached lanterns that shimmied with any puff of air. Right, left, left—she didn’t slow down or check where she was going. The neon signs were quiet, waiting for a nighttime resurrection. I remembered what Jackal had told me once, that Chinatown had been designed by Hollywood scenery artists, a sort of living movie set. Except that people really made their homes here. Lou and I knew it well: when you kept up the illusion long enough, it became real. This city knew it, too.

Once or twice Lou moved out of sight and I had to pick up the pace to find her again. It wasn’t that she was faster than me, I realized. I had the longer legs. She was cruising on autopilot, finding her way back to some old haunt. Making a point of showing me the pockets of her life I didn’t know. Finally, Lou stopped in front of a matte-black door, a name buried in the corner of the shuttered glass window. She held the door open and followed me inside.