Tea wouldn’t be the worst thing. Tea and one of the beds up here—a bed to drop into and sleep for the next hundred years. For a second, I can almost pretend Teddy’s psychedelic fun house is a womb, and I’m the warm Tai fetus next to the warm Noni fetus. I run my hand along a blanket next to me and find it to be softer and lighter than clouds.

Teddy chuckles. “Shahtoosh. Do you like it?”

“What?” I wonder if he sneezed.

“Shahtoosh is wool gathered from the neck of the Tibetan antelope. It means ‘king of wool’ in Farsi. Take it.”

I’m draping the weave over my shoulders when Nons drops her end. “Isn’t the Tibetan antelope endangered?” she whispers. Classique Noni.

The man in black returns with two pots (presteeped?) and while balancing a silver tray in one hand, he pours us three cups of perfectly brewed tea with the other. He then serves us. Silently. Not a drop spills. How many of the staff are hidden in the shadows of the apartment, just like the assistants Dad brought in from the institute?

“It’s my own personal blend of chamomile, valerian root, and seer’s sage,” Teddy says, picking up his tea. “I was sick of taking your father’s sleeping pills every night to get a good night’s sleep. I didn’t want to feel dependent on them.” He grins. “No offense.”

Another man in black appears then, with a polished silver tray, upon which sits a thick stack of paper. My hot palms slick over, and Noni tenses up next to me.

“Ah,” says Teddy, beckoning him over. “Here it is. As promised.”

It’s weighty in my grip, heavier than our copy. I flip through its pristine pages, and my hungry fingers reach …

PART FOUR

INT. GRAND OLD HOME — NIGHT

White Fox, bare-faced, clothed in a clean dress, and seated in a small room, with Client 2 / Man on the Moon sitting before her.

WHITE FOX

The next person wasn’t really a person—his home, not really a home.

EXT. ABANDONED PARK IN THE LIMATRA SUBURBS — EARLY EVENING

LIMATRA is ugly from afar: in tragic shambles during the war. This park is in poor condition.

White Fox swings alone on a swing, unsure of how to proceed. Her bags are piled to her side. She looks hungry, and her nose bleeds.

As she wipes it clean, VAMPYRRHIC BOY appears, clothed in a blue sweatshirt. He is only a child.

VAMPYRRHIC BOY

Who are you?

WHITE FOX

White Fox.

VAMPYRRHIC BOY

You’re not a fox. You smell nice.

WHITE FOX

(laughing)

You’re wrong, little man. What are you doing here alone?

VAMPYRRHIC BOY

(shrugging)

I’m hungry.

WHITE FOX