Roman knocked a bottle over with his elbow. It toppled and then rolled off the shelf, exploding on impact with the hard tile floor, spraying the toes of Roman’s heavy boots. He appeared not to notice.

Dorothy’s palms had started to sweat. Something was very wrong.

“Come on,” Roman murmured, digging a hand through his hair. Dorothy came up behind him, reading the medicine labels over his shoulder.

“Insulin?” she read.

Roman’s hand jerked forward, snatching a few small bottles off the shelves, knocking even more to the ground. He shoved them into his pockets, his movements erratic.

And then he was in the hall again, running for the exit.

Dorothy followed him up a staircase, through a set of heavy metal doors. She felt the prick of water on her cheeks and, blinking, realized that they were outside and it had started to rain. The streets were dark and glittering, and even the shadows seemed edged in light.

“Roman, wait!” she called, but Roman didn’t turn around. He was racing across an expanse of black asphalt, boots slapping wetly against the pavement. They must’ve exited at the back of the hospital because she saw no sign of the crowd and chaos that had been gathered out front. Swearing, she darted into the street after him—

A sound like a bullhorn blared through the night, shocking her. She stopped short as a car skidded to a stop inches away.

“S-sorry,” she said, though she couldn’t see the driver beyond the rain-soaked windshield.

Roman had ducked between two buildings. She was going to lose him. Heart pounding, she hurried the rest of the way across the street.

Tall buildings. Thinly gathered trees. Dorothy didn’t have time to stop and marvel at the world she was running through. She could only just manage to keep Roman in her sights. He was faster than she’d expected him to be, and he showed no signs of stopping to wait for her. Wind screamed in her ears. The rain came down harder, plastering her uniform to her shoulders.

She caught sight of red brick. Pink cherry blossoms. Black concrete gave way to grass, skyscrapers became tall trees and quaint, brick buildings.

Still, Dorothy didn’t know where they were until she saw the first tent.

She slowed to a walk, her chest aching. First it was just one tent, nestled below the trees, door flap fluttering in the wind. And then there were half a dozen, each seeming to appear from the shadows as though by magic, and then the tents were all Dorothy could see.

Her heart seemed to go still inside of her chest. This was Tent City, she realized. Roman had told her about this place a long time ago.

The emergency pop-up shelters had been erected on the grounds of the university in the days right after the first earthquake. The Black Cirkus had started here, as a small gang roaming these tents, looking for food. They’d gotten their name because of how the tents sort of resembled old circus tents. Though the fabric looked near black in the darkness, Dorothy knew they were actually purple. Or they had been when the tents had first gone up. Now they were old and torn, covered in mold and dirt and grime. There were a few old signs propped out front.