Typing on the store’s touch screen is agonizing, one. Letter. At. A time, and even when he’s done they’ve got nothing in stock. “Barenaked?” No. “Barelaked?” No.

“Are you ready to go?” His mom shuffles CDs.

“Yeah,” Schroeder says. “Okay.”

“Listen, Schroeder.” She looks around, hunted, then mutters too loudly. “Can you get me this? Off the Internet.”

He winces. “No, Mom.”

“Why not?”

The sheer explanation required weakens him. “You can’t get music anymore, okay? TV maybe. Anyway–” He squints at it. “Jesus, Mom, he’s younger than me.”

“What?” She looks more hunted. “He has an–an excellent voice!”

All through the hood, the children are whispering: tonight. Tonight is the night!

A pair of dubs, a bag of rubbers, maybe a fifth of Tanqueray–the children will take their special gifts and leave them in the secret spot under the porch. They’ll try not to sleep, and fail; and in the night, the Chronic Fairy will arrive–

And when the children wake and turn their pillows, oh! Dime bags and nickel bags! Spliffs and bricks!

“Thank you, Chronic Fairy!” they’ll shriek in delight.

And the Doctor will smile, and flutter his wings, and whizz away home to the Aftermath.

“You happy now?” gasps India, and hacks blood. She’s grinning. “Nobody wins.” Caradog’s lolled back in the chair, face white.

“Shut up!” he says. He’s tearing pictures off the walls, yanking back the bolster. “Where the fuck is it!”

“What?” India squints. “Jesus, you’re losing it.”

“The damn reset!” he shouts. “It has to be here! It has to bNNEET”

“–friends, okay?” India spreads her hands. “Here for business. Pat me down if you want.”

“Forget it,” grunts Caradog. “Nobody’s going to do anything stupid. Right, Pensieve?”

Pensieve stares at her, pulse racing. Remember. There’s something he’s supposed to remember.

Chili John gets the half-nod from the bartender and follows his thumb: there, obscured by palmetto. Yes. He drops a Sacajawea in a puddle of beer and tries on his most casual mosey.

He stops at the corner table, hooks his thumbs in his belt. “They say you’re the one.”

The man pulls at his Miller Lite.

“Are they right?” Chili John brushes one holster. “About that?”

Silence.

“They say,” he clears his throat, “they say you’re the man knows Greg Fu.”

The man looks up at last, and in his eyes is the look of a raw and ancient doom.