The door clicked open, and she stepped out onto the spongy grass. The cab sped away into the night. She reached up and touched one of the low-hanging lights, a bright smudge in the night sky no bigger than her thumbnail. A faint chime rang. High above, another answered. She couldn’t stop staring up. No canopy! Her heart pounded. Her stomach gnawed itself. Were any of these plants good to eat? She walked into the underbrush, hoping to find a path. As the hedges thickened around her and gnarled roots began to claw at her toes, she gave up walking and sat beneath a tree, pressing her back into the rough bark. She rocked back and forth slowly, listening to the soft chiming of the lights.

Soon she was lying down, eyes closed, breath steady. She was exhausted. The strange new world of light and speed withdrew to a distant point and disappeared.

Alone in a quiet forest in the middle of the busiest city in the world, Mistletoe slept.

*   *   *

Sometime later, a finger tapped her shoulder. Wake up. The tapping grew more insistent. Wake up. She sprang up against the tree, swinging the disruptor in a wild sideways arc as she blinked away sleep. Bright light filtered down through the treetops and swam in patches on the frightened girl who’d shaken her awake. She was older than Mistletoe, dressed in a long skirt that reminded her of Ambrose’s suit, the way it fluttered in an unseen breeze and you could almost but not quite see through it. Slung around one shoulder was a beaded purse, more solid looking than the skirt. Her hands were raised high in the air.

“What do you want?” Mistletoe asked hoarsely.

“To see if you were okay. That’s all. Swear on my ID.”

Mistletoe realized how she must look in her dirty scoot-riding clothes and crusty blue pigtail. She straightened her posture and cleared her throat.

“I’m fine.” She made a show of disarming and hiding the disruptor. “Sorry.”

The girl dropped one arm and nervously twirled a strand of her long red hair with the other. “So, are you looking for the tour group, or…” She appraised Mistletoe from head to toe. “I have some food, if you’re hungry.”

Mistletoe wanted to scream YES. Instead she nodded warily. The girl opened the bag and hurriedly produced a foil-wrapped bar.

“It’s not BetterFood,” she said apologetically. “It’s made from real milk, so it might taste a little weird.”

Mistletoe’s stomach was an instant black hole. Real milk chocolate was an expensive black-market commodity in Little Saigon, a once-a-year treat. She snatched the bar greedily and tore away the wrapper, barely noticing the tiny beam that sizzled from beneath a nearby bush, vaporizing the shiny foil before it could litter the ground.

The chocolate tasted rich and sweet and delicious. Just a hint of bitterness. She closed her eyes as she ate. Perfect.