He has emerged into a small clearing. The moon breaks the clouds, illuminating the glade like an enchanted stage set. In its ghostly spotlight, the grass shines very green, the dripping tree branches seem very sharp, and a small girl stands smiling very sweetly, her bright moon face framed by long black hair.

“Taah-daaa.” She beams, spreading her arms.

High above her, four small tin machines hover on shivering wings, amber eyes shining. As the moonlight disappears, so does her smile. The little robots’ eyes flash as they descend, slicing fast with arms like scalpels.

Harry staggers back. A crashing erupts in the trees behind him, and suddenly a tall shadow looms there. Harry turns again. But there is nowhere to turn. He lifts his phone. “Listen! It’s not—”

There is a single blunt blow. A crack of bone.

Harry’s phone falls to the forest floor and an enormous black boot stamps down on it. This boot has a curious assemblage of straps and springs around the heel. It grinds the phone to pieces, steps away.

Then there is nothing but rain falling on the Black Forest.

Time passes in rain and changing light, until it is pale morning. Another car comes along the lonely road and stops behind the wreck that had been Harry’s. A tall figure steps out, elegant in the wilderness. An old man. He wears a long gray coat, a bowler hat, and, oddly, a black mask across his eyes. He carries a cane.

He makes a rapid search of Harry’s vehicle before turning away, empty-handed, then snaps his fingers and rushes back to uncover the compartment hidden in the floor. Retrieving the roll of material, he flattens it out over the roof: an oil painting on canvas, depicting a bleak mountain road under a brooding autumn sky. He studies it, then stows it in his coat.

The old man scrutinizes the footprints leading into the forest, begins to follow. At the tree line, he stops as his cane touches something in the long grass. A large metal head rolls out. Wires tangle from its neck, dripping brown liquid. The old man kicks it away, then lights a cigarette. He holds his stick ready and walks on, fading among the misty trees.

The rain falls as if it might never stop. Or perhaps, as if it never began. As if it has simply always rained like this, and always will.

I.

THE SOUVENIR

“You never hang out anymore, man.”

David Anderson cracked his bubblegum in disapproval at Alex as they walked home from school through drizzling British rain. “Come on. Just come over. There’s a whole team of us playing online now—it’s total slaughter. I need you to get my back.”

“I dunno,” Alex muttered. “I’ve got this stuff I have to—”