“We don’t have electric,” Rachel said, oblivious to Peri’s mood. “But I don’t think we have the population you do, either.” Again she smiled. “Plague by way of GMO tomatoes. We call it the Turn, because everything turned around. Some things good, some things bad. My parents were in high school when it happened. I’m so-o-o-o glad I missed it. But there are days I think it had to have been easier hiding you’re dangerously different than trying to live with people who know you are.”

Peri nodded noncommittally and focused on the road. The woman knew of Detroit, cars, cell phones, and seat belts—even how to work the elevator. She wasn’t shocked at traffic, and had been only mildly impressed at the neon down at Lloyd Square. Yet she was convinced there was a magical portal in the mall that might transport her home to Cincinnati. Something was very wrong with her. One too many drafts . . . Shit, is this what waits for me at retirement?

“I like your Detroit,” Rachel said, leaning to look at the droneway, which was busy and lit up as all traffic was forced over the river at sundown. “It’s very green. But dead.”

“Dead?” Peri slowed at a red light, hoping it changed before they had to stop.

Rachel gestured at the green space they were passing, held down by one of Detroit’s restored and rebuilt older mansions, now surrounded by three other empty lots. “You’ve got nothing but squirrels and sparrows in your trees.”

The light changed, and Peri hit the accelerator. Packard Mall was just ahead. “What do you want? Condors?”

Rachel said nothing as they entered the complex, driving under the old Packard sign. “Is that it?” Rachel said, peering at the three-story building with its adjacent parking structure. The central tower was lit up and glowing, a beacon in the dark to draw the idle and bored. “Busy. You have lots of nightwalkers.”

Peri had never heard late shoppers called that. Taking a chance, she turned into the VIP parking lot right in front, pleased when there was a spot open. “You should see it during the day,” Peri said as she pulled into it. “No, wait,” she said when Rachel reached for the door.

Leaning, she watched the security drone hum overhead. It would register her car and charge her account, and while she usually hated leaving a record of where she was, giving Bill something to trace her by if there was trouble seemed prudent tonight. But even given that, there was no need for the drone to document Rachel getting out of her car. The video of her would be harder to get rid of than the woman herself in case there was . . . an issue later.