“The fucking service around here stinks,” said a familiar voice. Raphael approached Mirsky’s monitor. The physicist was tapping an empty cocktail glass against his head.

  “Where are the babes?”

  “Jonathan, it’s me.”

  Mirsky stared at him. “Jason?”

  “Raphael. Jason’s son.”

  Mirsky studied him, then placed the glass on the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t have no …” Mirsky tilted back his head, balancing the glass as would a trained seal. “Where the hell’s my drink?”

  Another familiar voice pricked him like a needle. Raphael shifted away from Mirsky and glided to the voice as if in a dream.

  “… Hypertext databases and mobile databases, spatial databases and temporal databases, probabilistic databases and embedded databases …”

  “Oh, Pink, not you too.”

  Pink quieted and blinked. She gazed at him, and for an instant there was recognition, but it vanished as rapidly as it came. “Data, sir? A dollar for data, sir?”

  “They killed you, Pink. And now they’ve done this.”

  “Ten percent off probabilistic—”

  “It’s me, Pink. Raphael Lennon. Are you in there, Pink?”

  She blinked twice. “No happy, happy—”

  “—hour,” said Mirsky.

  Pink blinked twice more. “Happy better run.”

  His heart leaped. Could it be? “Pink, who wants to kill me?”

  Pink’s eyes pixilated, then reassembled. “One, two, three, maybe four.”

  “Everyone wants to kill me?”

  “Three-forty.”

  “Huh?”

  The PA crackled. “Raphael Lennon, this is security. We’ve closed off all exits. Return to the lobby.”

  Pink bent her head and tapped on an unseen keyboard. After a moment, she stopped typing and put her fingertips together in front of her face. “Find the three-forty.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Pink, please explain.”

  “I’ve got hypertext databases and mobile databases, spatial databases and temporal databases, probabilistic databases and embedded databases …”

  The PA blared again. “We’re searching the building, room to room. SWAT is on the way.”

  Raphael grabbed the monitor as if to shake Pink herself. “Do you mean time? Three-forty on the clock?”

  Pink blinked slowly. “Can’t run.”

  From below came voices, tramping feet.

  “Pink, please—”

  “Track, do not track. Track, do not track.” Pink’s head fell. She snored long and loud.

  Raphael backed away from the sleeping Pink. He gazed along the rows of monitors. He should put them all out of their misery. But what would that accomplish? They were there but they weren’t. They were on servers in the fucking mythical cloud. Everywhere and nowhere. The damned faces … the hunger to be wanted.

  “Like me.”

  “Favor me.”

  “Congratulate me on my years of service.”

  Raphael backed out of Research and closed the door. He sprinted to Maglio’s wrecked office, went to the Wilshire-facing window and pressed his nose to the glass, scanning the sidewalk thirty feet below. The ledge was four feet beneath the window’s base, which meant a twenty-six-foot fall. Jesus. He would have to hit it righteously. Someone cried his name. Voices in the corridor. He drew back from the glass and swung the board above his head.

  He struck it, then again. Ten times until it cracked, ten more whacks before a hole appeared big enough to crawl through. He climbed out the window and lowered himself to the ledge. He stood with the skateboard on the eighteen-inch-wide ledge, which extended one hundred feet to the corner. Holding the board in his left hand, Raphael took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  Raphael glanced down at his legs. “Sorry. No choice.”

  Dashing along the narrow strip, he calculated. A twenty-six-foot fall, but the sidewalk had a slight downhill slant. If he hit it at top speed theoretically it would be slanted enough to transform the force of the impact into forward motion. Fifty feet into the desperate run, drones humming above and sirens wailing below, he jumped. He lowered his butt, shoved the board under his feet, and fell at speed toward the rushing concrete rectangles.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  He met the concrete like a pile driver, but his momentum and the sidewalk’s slant kept him rolling for twenty yards until he fell violently from the wobbling board then skidded down the sidewalk to a stop, his fingers still grasping the skateboard. Bending to catch his breath, ignoring the brutal pain in both ankles, and the lesser pain of a dozen scrapes, he gazed at Fairfax. Should he have let himself go? If he tried and didn’t fall into the canyon and die, he would have been in handcuffs in five minutes. Sirens wailed from all directions. Too late. Get the hell going. His body creaked and groaned as he mounted his board and pushed off.

  A patrol vehicle, lights flashing, came up behind him. Don’t panic. Fighting the escalating pain in his ankles, he continued at a measured pace, making a right on Sixth Street. The patrol car continued down Fairfax. He let out his breath and halted. How long would it take for it to be on the news? He slipped out his phone, then dropped it as if it were red hot. He brought his heel down on it a half-dozen times and then kicked it in the gutter.

  Oh, fuck that hurt. He slapped the pocket of the drift pants, felt the cylinder and heard the rattle of the pills. He uncapped the bottle, shook out two blue pills, and shoved them in his mouth. He swallowed and hoped they hadn’t lost their potency.

  He skated east four blocks, then south to Wilshire, his pain deadening a bit. Norval security and the police would be spreading out over the Wilshire District for sure. SWAT knocking down his door. No, that was impossible. He hadn’t shot anyone. Hadn’t committed a capital crime. But who knew? Three-forty. Can’t run. A buggy AI’s code or an AI’s buggy code? What difference? At a stoplight on Wilshire, he slumped, pulled up his hood and waited for the light to change. When it turned green and the pedestrian light said go, he eased the tip of the skateboard over the curb.

  For an instant, the morning remained still. An inch more. The wind stirred as if a sleeping beast goaded by a sharp prick, and its roar shook the palms. The enraged air lifted him and set him down. He stumbled on the sidewalk and caught his breath. There’s nothing there. Just have to … He backed ten feet from the corner, mounted the skateboard, and pushed off, slamming his free foot against the sidewalk a half-dozen times. I’ll fly right through you. As he reached the curb, a tornado swirled, sucked him up and tossed him like a twig back onto the pavement.

  Wilshire was impossible, but—

  One street. Only one relenting street.

  Four elements. Three to go.

  He skated north to Sixth and east to La Brea. On the corner, a fleet of delivery drones rose from the roof of a distribution center and spread out across a faintly lit sky. Holding the skateboard to his chest, he walked to the curb and inhaled sharply. When he exhaled, his breath was gray, smoky. A cold radiance rose from the street, and the air colored. Before him an enormous wall of blue ice rose. His skin numbed from the frozen mass of water. The glacier spread in both directions and climbed to the height of a skyscraper.

  He fell and clawed at the frozen sweat on his forehead and cheeks. His prison was insurmountable … or was it the eastern and southern walls? Wind was the first despair. Ice—powerful enough to carve canyons through rock—the second.

  He skated to Beverly. What patches of ice remained melted away as the tip of the board inched over the curb. The air warmed, not unpleasantly. He inched forward, and the temperature rose twenty degrees. Beads of perspiration rolled from his forehead to his cheeks. A little painful, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He let the skateboard wheels touch the street. He’d opened an oven set at five hundred and fifty for two hours. As he moved a little farther, the hiss of an angry steam iron vibrated, scorched his skin, and then a thousand more. Flames shot skyward. A molten metal heat slammed him. Bludgeoned, he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and retreated. A short distance away, a passerby, who had probably witnessed Raphael’s efforts, shrugged. An untroubled stranger took out his phone and swiped, swiped, swiped.

  One, two, three, maybe four. What did that mean? Three-forty?

  A patrol vehicle, lights flashing, sped down Beverly in his direction. He slumped and turned his face away. A half block down the street, a skyboard pulsed its message: Tiny City! Deluxe Units Available! Free Armadillidiidae with Purchase! The words morphed into a radiant arrow that pointed left.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Head throbbing, energy drained and maxed out on pain, Raphael could run no longer from the police, Norval security, and whoever else might be on his trail. If he could just get a few hours of rest, he could make his next move. He hoped Addy would be home by then—and welcoming.

  He’d skated to Tiny City in five minutes, but it took another hour to find unit 61347. On arriving, he saw no light or movement behind the curtains. The vine covering her side yard wall would be ideal to hide beneath until she returned, but within the dark green glossy leaves and fragile yellow flowers were the thorns, and he needed no further holes in his skin to supplement the cuts and scrapes dealt by the hard landing.

  While he worked out the next move, he studied the lush growth.

  Lift my branches and my thorns leave you be, the bougainvillea said, taking pity on him.

  I promise.

  He raised the bush and, avoiding the plant’s sharp guardians, crawled under, stretching out in the makeshift cave abutting the cinderblock wall. He drew in the skateboard and let the leafy blanket fall.

  Sunlight pierced the red petals and warmed Raphael’s cheek as he settled on the hard ground, folding the beanie into a small, soft pillow. He gazed out through the dense growth, the intricate play of light and shadow—imagined and missed his painting—and even the beat of drones policing the neighborhood couldn’t disturb the dreamy half-sleep overtaking him after his exhausting mayhem.

  He dreamt, and in his dream he encountered a rectangular woman with a rose in her navel. As he walked toward her, she became a triangle.

  Are you three or four?

  The flower grew into a luscious mouth, which turned clockwise into a zero.

  When he awoke, through the chinks in the leafy wall, he saw the light in Addy’s window. Conscious of the plant’s sting, he inched out as he’d inched in. Standing up, he touched his ankles, hot and swollen. His head felt little better. He shook his beanie free of dirt and pulled it on.

  He hobbled to Addy’s front entrance and knocked on the door, which swung open as if she had been standing there at the peephole.

  “My god, what happened?” She stared him up and down, a mother whose son trudged home from a brawl.

  “I’m in trouble.” Raphael glanced behind and shivered. “I need—”

  She tugged him into the house, slammed the door, and double bolted.

  “Ow.” He yanked off his beanie, removed a thorn, and pushed his fingers through his hair. He took a deep breath and smelled citrus and old paper. “I hid all afternoon in your garden.”

  “I don’t have a garden.”

  “I mean, the bougainvillea—under it. I didn’t know you were home. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Next time throw pebbles at my window.”

  He slunk. “Got it.” He leaned back against the door. “The police are after me. I don’t know if they would think to come here, but …”

  Addy nodded. “You thought I’d give you shelter.”

  “You want me to go?” If she says yes, I’ll close my eyes and pretend to faint.

  “Are you going to faint? My God, your shirt, your beanie. You’ve got blood and bougainvillea all over you.”

  “It’s my ankles I messed up.”

  “Pull up your pants.”

  He obeyed.

  Addy crouched down. “They’re like balloons.”

  “I’ll only stay—”

  “I swear. If I stuck in a pin, they’d explode.”

  “But you wouldn’t, right?”

  “Please, sit down, and don’t use your phone.”

  “I smashed it and threw it down the gutter on the way here.”

  Within five minutes, she had set his feet in a basin of cold water with Epsom salts, cleaned the dried blood from his scrapes, and placed a thermometer under his tongue. Pain came in waves, but in between, he swam in Addy’s touch and scent.

  “Swelling is already going down. How amazing is the body, huh?”

  Raphael studied her neck and bare shoulder. “Yes.”

  Straightening, she drew out the thermometer. “Ninety-nine point nine. Average body temperature worldwide has gone down a degree. So, you’re running a slight fever. You’ve got some deep abrasions. Have you had your booster tetanus shot? If not, you may need antibiotics.”

  “Could I have something to drink?”

  While Addy went to her compact refrigerator, Raphael examined the room. Even in her mini-kitchen, stacks of books rested on countertop and table: hardcover and soft, thick and thin, covers pristine and faded, creased and smoothed as if just printed. He recognized a few works and authors.

  She set a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on the table, then filled them. “I love novels, but also I can’t sleep. Lift your feet.” She took the basin and tossed him a towel.

  A moment later, she guided him to her mini–living room, where makeshift bookshelves climbed the walls and books rested everywhere with the symmetry of a flock of birds settled on a tree. “At night I use them as soporifics. It’s unfair to the stories. Maybe even abusive.” She set the pitcher of lemonade down on a low-boy coffee table and gestured for him to sit on the matching sofa. She dropped beside him.

  He sipped the juice and gazed around the tiny house, 144 square feet of efficient living. “I never thought you’d move east of Fairfax.”

  Addy spread her arms. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Nor that I’d be with you.”

  “East of Fairfax?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Your hands are trembling.”

  “I’m scared. I don’t want to wake and find out it’s not real.” He followed the path of the blue veins at the nape. How they ran into the swell of her breasts. He could smell her skin.

  Addy reached to draw up her ponytail. She slipped off the round barrette from her braid and undid the weave, letting the green and blue hair fall.

  “My company steals, cheats, and murders,” he blurted.

  “The first two are standard business practice, but murder—did you know that when you took the job?”

  His head felt fiery under the pressure to explain. “Maybe I should have known.”

  “Um, how many murders are we talking about?”

  His stomach tightened. She wasn’t taking it seriously, or was Raphael not presenting it so? “Hundreds, maybe. Norval hired assassins to kill people, the possums.”

  She looked off to the side, took a deep breath, and swallowed. “Do you … do you want more lemonade?” She lifted the jug.

  “It’s very good.”

  “The lemons are from the miniature Japanese lemon trees in the common area.”

  “Ah.” He imagined lemons the size of marbles. “How many do you have to squeeze to make one glass?”

  “Seven. It’s a lot of work. Refill?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Addy filled his glass.

  “Anyway, I pinpointed the possums’ locations, so my company could put a hit on them.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I was a detective who couldn’t follow his own footprints.”

  “So your company was stealing the possums’ money?”

  “Stealing their souls to create artificial intelligences.”

  She frowned.

  “It’s a technological trick. I don’t understand it, and I doubt they do. There’s a timeframe. The research subjects have to be alive when the program is ready to receive them, otherwise their consciousness can’t be transferred. So they killed the possums within the timeframe and turned them into Personality Pluses. Except they didn’t get it quite right. The AI versions are buggy.”

  She made a fist, tucked it under her chin and studied him with that I have no idea what you’re talking about look in her eyes. She had gone back to when he first told her of the phobia. It was all too wild, and though she wanted to believe him, she didn’t. But as if a child telling her of an invisible playmate, she’d humor him. He glanced at the books.

  “Addy, does three-forty mean anything to you?”

  “Like Nineteen Eighty-Four or 2001? There’s Ninety-Three.”

  “Ninety-Three?”

  “Victor Hugo’s last novel. I think I have it—” She scanned her books.

  “That’s okay. But nothing called Three-Forty?”

  “No bells. Hey, Pink might have an answer. I should call her.”

  Raphael’s chest tightened. Jesus, she didn’t know. “Addy, I have to tell you something.”

  She snatched up her phone, but he touched her hand before she could call. “Addy, Pink’s gone.”

  “She ran away from the hospital?”

  “Pink died this morning.”

  She looked up at the ceiling so her tears pooled, falling down her cheeks only when she moved close to him on the couch and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  He explained as best he could, leaving out Jason Klaes, the most important player in this absurd, deadly game. He feared Klaes would undermine whatever credibility he’d retained with her.

  “I should get out of here,” he said. “I’ve already put you in danger.”

  She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re coming down with something. Get up and shower, huh? In the meantime, I’ll find some old clothes that won’t look weird on you.”

  “Addy, I’m six-foot-three.”

  “Yes, but that writer—oops.”