“Two,” I continue, wondering why I’m still alive. “Three.”

As I count, I fume inside. Why didn’t a vision forewarn me of this? What use is my power if it doesn’t work when I need it?

I wish I’d somehow gotten in touch with Darian and made him teach me how to properly control my power; that way, no orc would’ve been able to sneak up on me.

“Fifty,” I say and allow myself to hope that I might actually survive this.

When I get to the count of one hundred, I become increasingly certain he won’t shoot me—because why wait so long before doing so?

Then again, why pretend to be a robber in the first place?

When I’m on 457, the train stops and the doors open.

I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but I think I hear heavy footsteps echo in the distance.

For good measure, I continue counting and keep my eyes closed, not willing to give the orc an excuse to shoot me if he’s still standing there, aiming at my head.

The doors close when I’m on the count of 498, so I eagerly keep counting up.

“A thousand,” I announce triumphantly when I finish the count and gingerly peep through my eyelashes.

Aside from Maya, there’s no one in the train car anymore.

I open my eyes fully, letting them readjust to the brightness of the car.

“He’s gone,” Maya whispers, opening her eyes as well. “I thought we were going to die for sure.”

She looks paler than the vampires at Earth Club. I want to reach out and give her a hug, but the shoulder the orc grabbed is throbbing in pain.

“I think that was the idea.” I touch the shoulder in question and wince. “I think he wanted to scare us as much as to take our money.”

She swallows thickly. “He was so huge.”

I debate telling her he’s that size because he’s an orc but decide against it. Whatever these orcs want seems so bizarrely illogical I worry that telling her about them might pull her into whatever strangeness they’re up to.

“Do you have any painkillers?” I ask as calmly as I can.

“I have a Celebrex.” Some color returns to her cheeks as she adds, “My period pain is so bad my pediatrician had to give me a prescription.”

“I’m jealous you’re young enough to still see a pediatrician,” I say, determined to put her at ease. “I loved mine.”

“I’m turning eighteen in a few months,” she says, her lips pursing almost petulantly. “Until you came along, I was probably the oldest at Orientation.”

“How did that happen?” I ask, deciding it would not be a compliment if I told her she looks not a day over fourteen.

“Only my mom is a Cognizant.” She looks at the gum stuck on the floor. “I told her about my powers just a few months ago; before that, I thought I might be crazy. And Mom couldn’t tell me on her own because of the Mandate.”

“Oh, wow.” That’s worse than what I went through while discovering my powers. At least I only briefly thought I might be crazy.

“Yeah.” Maya gives me a grim smile. “Having powers is so rare in my situation that no one bothered to check if I was one of the lucky exceptions. But since I’ve gotten under the Mandate, Mom has been telling me all kinds of cool things. We’ve become much closer as a result.”

She stops, giving me a guilty look. “I’m sorry. It must be hard for you to hear about this when you don’t know who your biological mom is.”

“It’s totally fine,” I reassure her. “Let me look up your pills because my shoulder is throbbing worse and worse.”

I take out my phone with my uninjured hand and bless the cell tower gods who have seen fit to give me a signal. Using voice commands, I search the web about her medication.

“I’ll take one of your pills,” I say after I skim a few articles. “It’s an NSAID, like Aspirin.”

Maya gives me a pill, and I dry swallow it before telling her, “You might want to double-check this prescription with an OB-GYN at some point in the near future.” According to one of the articles, this medication gives some people heart trouble.

She reddens again, and to change the subject, I use my uninjured arm to get out a deck of cards.

“Do you want to see something cool?” I ask, and she nods vigorously.

For the rest of the ride, I perform every card effect I can think of that can be done with one arm. Turns out, I can do a ton of them, thanks in large part to a DVD by the late René Lavand—an amazing magician who lost his arm when he was nine and still became a world-renowned performer.

Maya is entertained with everything I show her and seems to forget our recent misadventures—which was my goal.

“This is our stop,” I say, grudgingly putting away the cards as the doors open.

We rush out of the train, and I realize my shoulder feels better.

The pill does work. That, or my injury wasn’t that bad to begin with.

“You don’t have to stop by,” I say when we get to the street. “You’ve had enough adventures for the day.”

“No, I want to,” Maya says. “I’ve never seen a chinchilla before, and I owe you for saving my life. Twice.”

I think the truth is that she was in danger because of me that second time, but I don’t argue.

As we walk and talk, I sneak bullets from my pocket and reload the gun inside my bag.

If some orc walks a dog again—or does anything else near me—I’m busting a cap in his or her green ass.

Of course, now that I’m armed, Murphy’s/Chester’s Law makes sure we get to my apartment unmolested.

I open the door and lead her in. “This is our place.”

Maya looks around with unabashed jealousy.

“Honey, I’m home,” I yell out.

Ariel, Fluffster, and Felix come out to greet us at the same time.

“Maya,” I say. “Meet everyone.”

“Hi, Maya,” Fluffster says mentally—I assume in her head as well as ours.

“Hello.” Maya sinks to her haunches and rewards the chinchilla with a girlish smile. “Is it okay if I say you’re cute?”

“Why not?” Fluffster’s mental voice is completely serious. “Sasha spent over two hundred dollars to buy this animal’s body. It’s bound to be appealing.”

“Hello,” Ariel says and uses Maya’s momentary distraction to give me a “what the hell?” look.

“Maya’s power is psychometry,” I explain. “She offered to use it on Fluffster, to try to determine his origins.”

“Oh wow,” Felix says, looking down at Maya. “That’s a very impressive power you’ve got.”

Maya unpeels her eyes from Fluffster and stares at Felix, her gaze traveling from his fuzzy slippers to his stretched-knee sweatpants to the ratty “there is no spoon” t-shirt covered with the signature Matrix code. To my dismay, her eyes stop on my roommate’s face long enough for me to mentally spell “jailbait.”

To his credit, Felix seems completely oblivious to her ogling. “Can you do it now?” he asks eagerly. “I’m sure Fluffster wouldn’t mind.”

“I want to know my origins very much,” Fluffster says in everyone’s head. “Young lady.” He looks at Maya. “I want you to touch me.”

Ariel, Felix, and I burst out laughing while Maya and the chinchilla look at us like we’re completely insane.

“We should keep him away from playgrounds,” Ariel says between guffaws, and this renews our merriment for another few seconds.

Rolling her eyes at us, Maya reaches for Fluffster and gently cradles his body in her hands.

A glowing, purple-tinted energy seeps from her skin into Fluffster’s fur, and Maya’s expression turns distant, like she’s in a trance.

“I see him washing, but in dust instead of water,” she chants under her breath. “He’s guarding your dwelling. He’s eating hay. And peanuts. And raisins.” Her eyes roll behind her head for a moment; then she exhales, and her eyes go back to normal as she puts Fluffster back on the ground.

Looking at me with undisguised disappointment, she says, “All I got is that he belongs to you. If he can be said to belong to anyone, that is.”

“That’s still something,” Felix says reassuringly. “At least we know for certain he wasn’t somehow from my family.”

“He’s right,” Ariel says. “We can now be sure you have a Russian connection.”

“That’s true,” I say, pretending to an enthusiasm I don’t feel. I was hoping Maya could spare me from having to visit with the mysterious Baba Yaga, but no such luck.

“So,” Felix says, always eager to break an uncomfortable silence. “What did you kids learn at Orientation today?”

Maya looks like he slapped her with the word “kid.”

I give Felix a narrow-eyed stare. “We covered how being a Cognizant is stored in our DNA.”

“Ah.” He grins. “Hekima’s theories remind me of that Sidney Harris cartoon with the two scientists standing by the blackboard, with a bunch of math formulas on both sides and the words ‘then a miracle occurs’ in the middle.”

He looks at everyone, but it seems like I’m the only one who gets the reference. Deciding to mess with him, I try to look as blank as the others.

“Anyway,” he says with a lot less enthusiasm. “The punchline is ‘I think you should be more explicit here in step two.’”

Maya emits the most fake chuckle I’ve ever heard, and Ariel hides her face long enough to roll her eyes at me.

I look at Fluffster and everyone else’s auras. “At least he’s trying to explain all this. I don’t see you theorizing how the Cognizant powers work, and the Otherlands and everything.”

Ariel makes a throat-slicing gesture with her palm—mime language for “stop talking about that at once.”

Felix perks up. “I do actually have a theory that explains everything. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you about it yet.”

“I have to use the restroom,” Ariel says and gives me a look that seems to say, “I tried to warn you. Now it’s your funeral.”

Felix ignores her departure, walks over to the living room couch, and takes a seat. “Have you ever heard of the simulation theory?” he asks.

I gesture for Maya to sit on the couch, and she plops right next to Felix, so I sit to her right. “I hear about this theory every time you get drunk or high.”

I look at Fluffster for support, but the chinchilla simply jumps onto my lap and gestures with his head for me to pet him—so I do. “You go on about how reality is simulated on some powerful computer outside our universe,” I tell Felix. “How even everyone’s brains are simulated.”

“I guess I have talked to you about that,” he says disappointedly. Then he looks at Maya, oblivious to the fact that their knees are touching. “Just so that you’re in the loop, Maya, let me better explain what Sasha just alluded to. But first, do you play video games?”

“I have the Switch,” Maya says, her cheeks turning pink, as though she’s just admitted to being a pervert or a telemarketer.

“I have one of those too,” Felix says, the excitement in his voice jumping up an octave.

“You have all the gaming systems ever invented,” I say, curious how this revelation will affect the dreamy look on Maya’s face. To my surprise, she stares at Felix with even more admiration.

Ignoring me, he says to her, “Consider the difference between something like Pac Man—an older game that involves a yellow circle running around eating shapeless pellets—and the latest Zelda game, which is like a fully fleshed-out micro world that one can get lost in.”

Maya sagely nods, her eyes never leaving Felix’s face.

“And now also consider virtual reality.” He conversationally touches Maya’s hand, and she looks like she might have either an orgasm or an aneurysm. “Have you ever tried virtual reality on your phone or on one of those VR gizmos?” he asks her.

She shakes her head, then licks her lips and huskily says, “No. I haven’t. But I’d love to.”

“I have,” I chime in, worried Maya might forget that I’m here and jump Felix—making me an accessory to a crime. “Aside from motion-sickness-like nausea, it was really cool. It felt like being transported to another world.”

“Exactly,” Felix exclaims. “Given the evolution of the game industry, doesn’t it seem logical to you that games will eventually be indistinguishable from reality?”

“Maybe,” I say. “At some point.”

“Like in The Matrix?” Maya asks, her hand hovering perilously close to Felix’s knee.

“You’ve seen The Matrix?” For the first time, Felix looks at the girl with something resembling awareness of her as a real person and not just a pair of ears for him to geek out to. “What I’m talking about is indeed like The Matrix,” he continues without waiting for her reply, “but on a multiverse scale and with people who are fully simulated, like the agents in The Matrix. No plugging in. No bodies.”

I want to say something about Maya being born after The Matrix came out, but seeing the admiration in the poor girl’s eyes, I suppress the urge. Maya’s puppy crush doesn’t give me the uncomfortable sensation I felt when I learned about Felix’s date.

Speaking of the mystery girl, I wonder when their date is happening. Because if she shows up in the next few minutes, Maya will be crushed.

“Wow.” Maya’s enthusiasm seems genuine. “You think our world is like that?”

“It’s only logical.” Felix turns completely toward her, cutting me out of the conversation. “If all the kids in some universe outside of ours have video game systems that can simulate whole realities, and if there are millions or quadrillions of these simulated worlds, but only a few real ones, then, statistically speaking, we’re more likely to find ourselves in one of the simulated ones.”

“All this is great,” I say, rubbing Fluffster under his chin. “But what proof is there for this theory?”

“The universe seems suspiciously mathematical,” Felix says, turning back to face me. “Almost as though some computer scientist designed it, perhaps?” His unibrow goes up. “And, to get back to what started this discussion in the first place, simulation theory is the only rational way to explain us—the Cognizant.”

“Is it?” I ask, intrigued despite myself.

“Think about it.” He turns to Maya, then back to me, then back to Maya. “How else do you explain both of your powers? Predicting the future in the real world would probably be impossible, but if the world is like a video game, then you can use computer resources outside the game to forecast what might happen inside the game next. Psychometry is also easy to explain. In a computer world, everything has metadata—information that describes who something belongs to, and things like that.”

Maya looks like her mind is blown, but I’m a lot more skeptical.

“How would this explain all the rules, such as the one about ‘If you move to Gomorrah, you’ll lose your powers over time?’” I ask, stroking Fluffster between his ears. “Or that domovoi need an animal’s body to become corporeal?”

“It’s interesting you bring up Gomorrah,” he says, looking back at me. “On that world, they have VR tech that makes ours seem like child’s play. But, to get back to my point, video games are all about rules.” He looks at Maya. “Why does Mario—who’s supposed to be a plumber—use a jump as his modus operandi? Why not club gumbas with a wrench? Something like the rule about the domovoi makes more sense than that Mario game, as it might be based on some myth in the world where the console was created.”

I scratch my head. “I’m not sure—”

“The Cognizant might be playable characters,” he says passionately. “A way to have fun with superpowers, or be a vampire, or an orc, or you name it. Earth and places like it might be PVP zones, while Gomorrah is a non-PVP zone.”

“What’s PVP?” I ask, seeing a blank look on Maya’s face.

“Player versus player,” he says. “Zones where combat is possible.”

I shake my head. “What about the whole thing about human belief giving us more powers? How does that fit in?”

Ariel walks back into the room; her hair looks neater, and her makeup is reapplied.

“That’s probably an implementation detail,” Felix says. “The in-game universe might be a type of consensus reality—a good way to save resources—”

“You’re still talking about this?” Ariel says in maybe-mock horror. “How about offering our guest some coffee?”

“I’m sorry.” Felix gives Maya a sheepish look. “Do you want some tea?”

“I do,” Maya says, with the intonation girls use to agree to a marriage proposal. “But unfortunately, I have to run home.”

“Oh.” It’s unclear if Felix is upset that Maya has to go or (more likely) that he has to stop talking about his theories.

“You should come back and see my psychometry routine,” I tell Maya, suppressing my own disappointment about not showing it today. “Come on a day when you can stay for a meal. Felix is an amazing cook.”

Maya audibly swallows and very quickly says, “Yes. I’d love that. Thank you.”

“No problem,” I say, feeling a wave of mischievousness coming on. I turn to Felix. “Can you please walk Maya home? I’d do it myself, but I have to go to work.”

Felix raises his unibrow higher than usual and looks at Maya as though he’s just noticing she’s there.

“It’s not necessary,” Maya says, so halfheartedly that I have to suppress a laugh. “I live just a few blocks away.”

“No,” Felix says, and it’s clear that he’s channeling the gentlemanly chauvinism he picked up from his father—just as I suspected he would. “Let me walk you. I insist.”

“Okay.” Maya demurely bats her eyelashes. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Felix jumps to his feet and extends a hand to help Maya get up from the couch.

She blushes, but takes his hand and gets up exaggeratingly slowly.

I put Fluffster on the couch and stand up to walk them to the door.

“Be back soon,” Felix says, putting on his sneakers.

“I won’t be here anyway.” I wink at Maya when Felix isn’t looking. “Got to work.”

Maya gives me a shy smile and exits the apartment with Felix.

“Are you crazy?” Ariel exclaims as soon as the door closes behind them. “Do you want him to go to jail?”

“She’s ‘turning eighteen in a few months.’” I make my voice as high-pitched as Maya’s.

“So she says.” Ariel locks the door. “Felix better check her ID.”

“Nothing is going to happen between them anyway,” I say and head into the kitchen. When Ariel joins me, I add, “He’s loyal to that imaginary girl he mentioned before. You know—his potential Netflix-and-chill date.”

“What do you know, Felix is popular. Maybe he’ll finally lose his virginity.” She chuckles. “Did the date happen already?”

Felix’s possible virginity is one of Ariel’s favorite jokes. Unfortunately, said jokes often end with a solution that also fixes my long abstinence, so I’m not a big fan.

“I have no clue,” I say, opening the freezer and pretending not to hear the v-word. “I hoped you might.”

“No.” She looks embarrassed. “I got home about an hour ago.”

“When you and Gaius party, you really party.” I examine the contents of the freezer carefully and settle on frozen peas.

“What’s that for?” Ariel narrows her eyes at my makeshift cold compress. “Did something happen?”

I tug my shirt sideways and show her my bruised shoulder.

“Who did this?” she demands, and I have a sneaking suspicion she’d rip off a part of the big orc’s anatomy if he were here to take credit for his handiwork.

“I’ll have to tell you on my way to the office,” I say, gingerly poking at the bruise.

The shoulder is tender, but not as bad as Ariel’s reaction would imply.

Boy, is that medicine strong.

“Let me see it,” she says and examines my shoulder carefully. “It seems to just be a bruise,” she admits grudgingly when done. “Cold therapy is a great idea.”

I place the peas on the table and cover myself up again. Applying the frozen pack through my clothes, I start for the door and say, “Ready?”

Ariel looks down at her casual outfit, nods, and pulls on her old Uggs to complete the ensemble.

On the way down, I tell her about my encounter with the werewolf bullies and the orc mugging.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as the cab pulls up to the curb. “I’m so very sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say as we get into the car. “You got me the gun. It’s my own fault it was empty by the time I got mugged.”

“If I’d come home at a reasonable hour, I would’ve escorted you to Orientation.” She slams the door so hard the paint chips from the car and the driver gives her a glare in the rearview mirror. “How could I have been so selfish?”

“You can’t be my chaperone twenty-four-seven.” I apply the peas to my shoulder again. “Now spill it. What were you and Gaius doing all this time?”

“Nothing.” She develops a sudden interest in the floor of the cab. “We’re just friends—”

My phone rings.

It’s a video conference from Nero.

“Miss me already?” I say as I accept the call.

“I expected you’d be in the office by now,” Nero says, his gaze taking in my surroundings. “Tell me that’s a cab on the way to the office.”

“It’s a cab,” I confirm. “I’m almost there.”

“What is that?” He looks at the peas in my hand.

“Long story. Suffice it to say, I’m going to work even though I got injured. Remember that come bonus time.”

“What happened?” he almost growls.

I look at the driver in front of us and decide not to risk the Mandate pain that would ensue if I spoke about secret things like orcs in front of a human.

“I got mugged,” I say. “But it all worked out. Just cost me a few hundred bucks.”

“I will remember.” His already-stormy gaze upgrades to a Category Five hurricane. “When it comes to rewards, I always make sure justice is served.”

On that cryptic note, he hangs up.

I look at Ariel with confusion, but she just smiles lasciviously. In an exaggeratedly sexy tone, she mouths, “You will get your rewards.”

“That’s not what he said.” I contemplate throwing the peas at her head, but my phone saves her by pinging loudly.

It’s a notification from my bank app. Opening it, I stare at the transaction in question.

“Nero just gave me a hundred thousand dollars,” I say numbly. “For no reason.”

Ariel gapes at me, then leans in. “Could it be an indecent proposal?” she whispers conspiratorially. “Doesn’t he realize he can get the goods for free?”

I again debate throwing the peas at her, but my phone pings again.

This time, it’s an email from Nero outlining what he needs me to do today. To my shock, it’s prefaced with, “If you’re not feeling well, I can manage without you.”

Given the unexpected bonus he just gave me, and especially that preface—the nicest thing Nero has ever written or said to me—I decide to be a good corporate citizen and tough it out.

Once I examine the workload, though, my enthusiasm noticeably wanes. Nero needs me to prepare a presentation for prospective investors about six of the stocks I recommended earlier, complete with a full financial projections model for each. This is a solid three days of work if I do it at a leisurely pace, but he needs it done by Monday evening.

There’s no way I can cheat by going on instinct here; I have to actually put in the hours.

“We’re here,” Ariel says, bringing me out of my work-inspired gloom.

We’re already next to my building, so I reach for the door.

“Call me when you’re done,” Ariel says. “I’ll come pick you up.”

“I’m pulling an all-nighter.” I get out of the car. “I’ll be lucky if I get home Monday night.”

Ariel frowns, but I shut the cab door before she can say anything.

Spreadsheets and EBITDA ratios swirling in my head, I make my way to my desk.

The peas are no longer cold when I get there, so I toss them aside and use the little mirror attached to one of my monitors to have a look at my bruise.

A hundred shades of red, purple, black, and blue, the thing looks so angry I’m lucky all I feel is a dull ache.

Covering myself up, I look around furtively. The office around me is empty, but there are persistent rumors about hidden cameras in every nook and cranny of this building—video feeds that Nero allegedly watches personally. I’ve always thought these stories were huge exaggerations or flat-out lies, in part because some are plain ridiculous, like the one about an underground bunker full of gold that Nero actually swims in, like Scrooge McDuck. Then again, the fund is heavily invested in gold, so who knows?

Without further ado, I power up my computer and get to work.

When I get hungry, I order two burritos, one for right now and one for the middle of the night when the place will not be delivering.

After I eat, I power through one full financial model, toggles, assumptions, and all, before I allow myself the luxury of a glass of water.

By three a.m., I make enough progress on the second model to reward myself with the second dinner and a couple of cups of espresso.

By sunrise, I’m so tired I’m starting to forget all the Excel shortcuts, and would pay a hundred thousand dollars for a nap in my bed.

When people begin trickling in for their usual Monday start, I take a break and get myself some oatmeal in the cafeteria.

Eating it as I walk back, I realize how lucky I am that I went to the club and then slept so late the day before. If it weren’t for my outing, I’d probably feel much worse than I already do—and I feel like a squeezed lemon that was then put through the blender.

At eleven, I hear a text notification on my phone.

It’s from Dad.

Looking forward to lunch.

Oh, no, that’s today.

I strongly debate flaking on him, and if I hadn’t avoided him all this time, I probably would. As is, I decide to stick with the lunch but bail as quickly as socially acceptable.

Since the sushi place is walkable, I set my phone to remind me to leave at 12:15 and email myself some quarterly reports I can read on the way.

Then I get back to work.

The alarm rings, yanking me out of my Excel-induced stupor. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I realize I’ve actually accomplished a lot in the past hour and fifteen minutes.

Given my progress, I might allow myself a slightly longer lunch.

My nose is in my phone all the way to the restaurant as I look up the information I need for the next model. Surprisingly, I don’t bump into too many people.

Dad is waiting outside the restaurant.

He has no aura.

I don’t know if I should be disappointed or relieved.

Tall and dressed in a bespoke suit, my dad looks great for a seventy-seven-year-old and can probably pass for someone ten years younger. Then again, his “youthful” looks aren’t how he ended up married to Wife 2.0, who’s in her forties. Dad owns a very successful tech company that makes 3D printers, and Mom’s replacement is probably a gold digger—though truth be told, his money might’ve been why Mom married him as well.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says with his signature Boston accent. “So glad you could make it.”

“Hi, Dad,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt. “It’s good to see you.”

He beams at me and opens the restaurant door with a butler-like gesture.

I pocket my phone and walk in.

Maybe I should’ve made up with him sooner. I feel lighter on my feet, and my earlier weariness seems to have subsided. And—though this might be pure placebo—even my bruised shoulder doesn’t bother me as much.

“Hello, dear,” Dad says flirtatiously to the beautiful hostess. “My daughter and I have a reservation under Braxton Urban.”

And just like that, I’m back to Earth, all lightness gone. Did Dad just highlight to the hostess that he’s with his daughter so that she knows he isn’t with a date? Then I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring either—though for all I know, he and Wife 2.0 could’ve split by now.

Either way, that’s Dad for you, always flirting with anything that moves.

“Kiddo?” he says, and I look at him sullenly, feeling like a teenager all over again.

“Let’s get a seat,” I say, and follow him and the hostess.

The hostess swings her hips like a pendulum as she walks, and, of course, Dad is staring at the view, hypnotized.

She hands us the menus, and I stick my nose into mine, determined to take a few breaths so I don’t say something I will later regret.

“The king salmon sashimi is fabulous,” says the brightly dressed waiter who appears out of nowhere, like a ninja.

I look up at him and nod. “I’ll try that.”

What I don’t add is that I’m going to tip him extra for being a guy, and thus sparing me from having to watch Dad flirt with yet another female.

“I’ll get an order of that as well,” Dad says. “I’ll also have the live scallops and a mango avocado roll.”

“Add those to my order as well,” I say and smile at Dad.

He was the one who introduced me to Japanese cuisine early on, and since Mom refused to even consider it, sushi was something we’ve always done as a father-daughter activity. Over time, we’ve even developed a taste for similar entrees.

“I have a weird question,” I say when the waiter leaves. “Do you have any Russian blood in your background?”

Dad takes a napkin and meticulously places it on his lap. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

“No reason,” I lie. “Just making conversation.”

He shrugs. “I’m an American mutt—part German, which is where our last name is from, but also part French and Irish, with a smidge of Italian.”

“I think I might be Russian,” I blurt out. “Biologically, I mean.”

The waiter comes back and places two green teas and two miso soups on the table.

“It’s possible,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Though when we found you, we did reach out to the Russian embassy, and they had no record of you.”

Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t feel threatened when I discuss the topic of my biological parents—something I’ve always been grateful for.

“Did I have any pets growing up?” I ask, continuing my interrogation. “I don’t recall any, but—”

“We didn’t have animals.” Dad picks up his soup and cradles it in his palms, as though warming them. “Your mother…”

“What about you?” I take a sip of my green tea—it’s excellent here. “Did your family have pets growing up?”

“No. Your grandpa had severe allergies.” He sips the soup straight from the bowl, in the traditional Japanese style. “I did once have an aquarium, though.”

Could Fluffster have embodied a fish? Doesn’t seem likely, plus Dad not being Russian is extra evidence that I didn’t get Fluffster from his side of the family—something I already suspected but am glad to verify before seeing Baba Yaga.

I sit up straighter and almost hit myself on the forehead.

This lunch is not the only Monday commitment I nearly forgot. I also have a meeting with Baba Yaga tonight at eleven.

How am I going to be awake for that after the all-nighter? What if—

“Are you okay?” Dad asks, frowning. “You look burned out.”

“I had to work all night.” Since I’m not as hardcore as Dad, I pick up a spoon for my soup. “A big fire drill at work.”

“They better appreciate you over there.” He puts down his bowl. “You know you can come work for me any time, right?”

“I do now,” I say, smiling gratefully.

He nods and finishes the rest of his soup.

I definitely didn’t know I could come work for him, and the offer fills me with more warmth than my soup and tea combined. I’d never take him up on it, of course, but I’m still grateful. I want to feel like I earn my money, plus his company relocated to San Fran and I love living in New York too much.

Our sushi arrives and we attack it with gusto, discussing his business—which is booming.

“I saw your TV performance.” He gesticulates excitedly with his chopsticks. “I was so proud.”

“Not sure if that’s ever happening again,” I say, my appetite disappearing.

“You talking about that nonsense on YouTube?” He delivers a piece of raw salmon into his mouth.

I nod. I can’t tell him the truth—that a secret society of supernatural beings forbade me from going on TV or in general practicing my magic in front of humans like him.

“Don’t let them get to you,” he says. “Haters gonna hate.”

The combination of those words with his accent makes me snort, but my levity is cut short when I notice another patron of the restaurant.

It’s Beverly, one of Mom’s most gossipy friends.

I instantly look away.

Did she see me? I sure hope not. It’s not like I’m ashamed of reconnecting with Dad; it’s just that Mom would be happier if she didn’t know about it.

“Do you have to head back to the office?” Dad asks, misinterpreting my worried expression.

“Yes,” I say, and it’s not a lie. I still have a ton to do.

“Go.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll take care of the bill.”

Usually, I’d fight him on this, but these are special circumstances, so I say, “Thank you so much, Dad. Next one is on me.”

He grins at me, clearly happy to hear there will be a next time.

“It was great catching up.” He gets his wallet out and gestures at the waiter to stop by.

“It was.” I jump to my feet, making my chair creak. “Call me when you’re here next. We’ll set something up.”

I start to make my escape when a hand touches my injured shoulder.

“Watch it,” I say, wincing.

Of course, the hand belongs to Beverly. I lost sight of the little tattletale for a moment, and now she’s standing next to me, saying, “What’s wrong, Sasha?” With a deep frown and a crinkle of her corn-kernel nose, she adds, “Greetings, Baxter.”

“I was just leaving,” I say and remove the hand from my shoulder. I might’ve used too much force, because Beverly rubs her wrist afterward.

“You guys catch up,” I tell them, and leaving both Dad and Beverly shocked at such an abominable suggestion, I sprint out of the restaurant and dial Mom.

I want to verify her heritage, just in case, and I want to do it now. Once Beverly drops the bomb about this lunch, Mom might be harder to interrogate.

She picks up on the third ring.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says over some noise in the background. “I don’t have much time to talk.”

“Do you have any Russian roots?” I blurt out. “Felix, my roommate, is from the former Soviet—”

“No, darling,” Mom says hurriedly. “My family has roots in the British royalty. I must’ve told you that.”

Come to think of it, she has told me that, but I tend to not register a lot of the stuff she says. Otherwise, my brain would be a garbage dump of Mom minutia.

“Did you have any pets growing up?”

“Granny had a parakeet,” she says. “What is this about? Are you on drugs?”

“I’m not on drugs,” I say, trying not to sound exasperated. Then a mischievous idea enters my head, and I add, “There’s actually something important I wanted to tell you.”

“What is it?” she asks eagerly. She has a nose for gossip.

“I had lunch—” Instead of continuing to speak, I hiss into the phone, then press the mute button for a second, then unmute, say “sushi,” then hiss and mute again. Unmuting once more, I say, “Mom, I think you’re breaking up.”

Now if Mom asks me why I had lunch with Dad and didn’t tell her, I can claim that I did tell her—and that maybe she didn’t hear me because she needs a new phone.

“I better go anyway,” she says. “I’m on a tour in Paris. Why don’t we catch up later?”

“Okay, sounds good. Glad how cool you are with this news,” I say and hang up before she can question me further.

I walk in silence for a few heartbeats, thinking. I can now be almost certain Fluffster is my connection to my biological parents. The other option is that he was either a fish or a parakeet in one of two non-Russian families who are not even Cognizant—or, in other words, unlikely.

Now I need to get all my work done, so I can actually make it to my evening appointment with Baba Yaga—my only remaining resource.

Taking a deep breath, I pull up the quarterly reports I prepared earlier and read them on my phone for the rest of the way to my desk.

By three p.m., I make a huge progress in my workload, but the usual slump that comes at this time of the day is a crushing weight that threatens to make me fall asleep sitting up.

Mainlining coffee, I fight to keep my eyes open as I work on the last model.

It’s 8:23 p.m. when I finally finish everything.

No wonder sleep deprivation is used as torture. I feel ready to spill all my best magic secrets to get some shuteye.

Blinking blearily, I type everything up and preface it with, “I’m beat. If I don’t hear back from you in five minutes, I’m going to go home and crash.”

I send the email to Nero and place my head on my desk. If I’m going to wait, I might as well close my poor eyes.

The surface of the desk feels like a pillow under my cheek, and, without meaning to, I doze off.

I’m a disembodied consciousness floating in a back alley.

It takes me a moment to recognize this particular filthy little corner of the city. This place is where the giant garbage dumpsters for my work building live, but people gather here to sneak a smoke without being judged—especially if they’re smoking pot. I guess when you’re smoking, the stench of garbage doesn’t bother you as much.

There are four figures standing in a row. The street is wide enough for a garbage truck to back into, yet these four are so big they almost take up the whole width of the street.

I know this group.

It’s the orcs who tried to kill me.

The rightmost is the one who wore the construction hat when I nearly got killed by falling objects. Next to him is the female orc who almost turned me into a pancake with her car right after the construction accident. The dog walker orc is next to the female, and after her is the biggest orc who pretended to be a mugger earlier today and left the bruise on my shoulder.

“It’s 8:45,” says the mugger orc in a voice that would give me shivers if I had a body. “Where is he?”

“Yeah,” the female says, her voice nearly as deep. “And where is Bogof?”

“Bogof is always late,” says the dog walker orc, and I realize that scary voices are something all orcs share. “We can do our business without him.”

Who is this “he” the mugger mentioned, and for that matter, who is Bogof? Is it safe to assume that Bogof is the name of another orc and not the abbreviation for the “buy one, get one free” sales tactic?

More importantly, what are these four waiting for? Are they about to mug someone who isn’t me for a change?

The orcs look to the entrance of the alley.

Instead of another orc—assuming Bogof is an orc—the newcomer is very familiar.

It’s Nero, and he’s walking right into the gaggle of orcs, as though he doesn’t see them.

What’s worse, another orc (probably the aforementioned Bogof) is tailing Nero in the distance—and my boss doesn’t seem aware of that either.

“No,” I want to scream at Nero, but I don’t have a mouth. “Don’t go there. It’s a trap.”

Nero keeps walking.

The orcs form a semi-circle and menacingly head toward him.