He recalled the photographs of her from the online catalog and reminded himself to lower his expectations. They didn’t always arrive in the best shape. But once they were cleaned and rested, they were usually restored to their previous condition, good for several months. Even then he could most often fetch a decent price selling them used. For people with lower standards, there was still value to be extracted.

The slender man nodded at Donnell, who produced a key, moved forward, and fussed with the massive cargo-door lock. Then he swung out the leverage handles, the lock rods clanking in their holds. He stepped back, a magician revealing the prestige. After so much planning, the theatrics were essential. Nothing could shatter the mood.

As the doors creaked open, Donnell eased farther back out of the sight line and stood beside the slender man, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands folded.

This was the slender man’s favorite part, when he let them out of the dark box they’d been living in for weeks. He was their keeper, their owner, their God.

But this time something was different.

The inside, it wasn’t pitch-black.

A rod of light dropped from the roof of the container unit. Had Contrell installed a light for her journey?

The slender man blinked but could make out nothing in the darkness beyond. It looked like a spotlight on a stage. The aesthetics rather suited him.

“Don’t be shy, my love,” he said. “Step forward.”

A rustling issued from the shadows, a form emerging.

She was bigger than he would have thought. Broad-shouldered.

She was also a he.

And the “he” was holding what appeared to be a nine-millimeter submachine gun of German design.

The slender man felt his throat clutch when he realized that the light on the ceiling wasn’t a spotlight at all. It was the golden light of the moon, shining through a hole that had been cut in the top of Container 78653-B812.

In the gleam of the muzzle flare, he saw the actual Ms. Siegler crouched in the back corner of the container behind the man, hair matted down across her eyes.

Beside him Donnell danced a little jig, the rounds jerking his limbs this way and that.

There came a moment of silence, a curl of cordite rising from the muzzle, during which the slender man grappled with the fact that the carefully curated mood was in fact shattered.

He tried to say something, but the sound he forced through his dry throat was an inhuman croak. He’d never known that terror could feel like this, a physical sensation running through every vein, inhabiting every cell, threatening to explode from the core of you straight through your skin.

The silence stretched out longer yet as the barrel drifted casually to face him, the bore waxing into a full moon to match the one above.