up extra information?
“He spent time as a child somewhere under attack.”
“Really,” I say, waiting for her to go on.
She stuffs more muffin into her mouth.
He
did
feel like he was under attack in that decrepit, graffiti-covered stairwell. What the hell happened there? I know there was that battle between Packard and Henji, and Henji, at age eleven, left as a stowaway on a freighter out of Port Midcity, never to be seen again. Or at least that’s what people think. The truth is that he returned a decade and a half later, a grown man with a new name—Otto—and joined the police. Rose to police chief, then to mayor. Most of the people who could connect Otto with Henji are dead.
Ez munches the rest of the muffin. Taking her time.
“What kind of attack?”
Ez gives me a sly look. “Show me the descrambler and I’ll be happy to tell you all that I intuit.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Is it in your pocket? Your purse? What harm can it do to show it?”
“It’s the rules.” My descrambler chain bracelet rests heavily on my wrist. I have this urge to show it.
“Nobody will know.”
“Sorry.”
Her beseeching look seems to tug at me, and I have this crazy sense that it will be a great relief to do as she says. She already has a kind of hold on me, I realize. Because I really, really want to show her the bracelet!
I take a deep breath. “You sidetracked me before I could tell you my thing—”
“Does he carry a field descrambler like you do?” she asks. “He’s a doc. If you do, he should. Right?”
She wants a descrambler so she can get out. First order of business.
“Hey! Pay attention. Should he carry one?”
“Why? Are you worried about the parasites? Because I actually had some interesting news about all that.”
She straightens to attention. “What kind of news, exactly?”
I narrow my eyes. “Not news. I mean, not news for the public.”
She flings up a hand. “Don’t tell me!”
“Okay.”
“Wait, what kind of news?”
“It has to do with mutation.”
“Shit! No, we were talking about the descramblers. You’re giving me a descrambler, remember?” She goes on, but with less heart. It’s the old hypochondriac Catch-22—you crave new information because you think it will calm your fears, but it usually does the opposite.
Soon enough I’m giving her the horrifying details of a deadly new viral mutation. It’s just the sort of news that would’ve upset my dad—he was fixated on pandemics. He still keeps a level-four biohazard suit and top-grade respirator for me out at his place in the woods.
Always hazard gear for you here
, he says.
I sometimes dream of introducing him to Otto, but Pop never comes into the city. Too many germs. I drive the hour out there now and then and spend evenings eating frozen entrees and playing chess. Pop’s impressed with my seeming sanity. He wouldn’t be if he knew what it cost me.
Our conversation winds on, the two of us on either side of a coat check booth window, psychologically attacking each other. But in the end, I win, because I stoke up a whole lot of terror, take her hand, and zingher. I strive to keep my expression impassive as my fear whooshes into her. Slowly, the peace fills my head and my heart, like cool, calming water.
She takes a shuddery breath.
I let go. Yes, I zing for public safety, to save Otto’s head, to save myself. But it feels great, and I love it. That’s the horrible truth.
Reverse emotional vampires. Maybe Simon’s right.
She looks into my eyes, but it’s that sort of gaze where the person really isn’t looking at you. At the end, after the last of us is done with her, she’ll be completely lost in that inward attention. “You have to hurry back,” she exhorts.
“I will.”
Chapter
Seven
T HE DAY IS GORGEOUS —it has to be nearly forty degrees. I may be a reverse emotional vampire, but the sun is warm on my face and the sky is bright blue. I set back out toward Mongolian Delites to get