What Became Of Michael Scissors

The gun was shoved into his waistband, the address was scratched in black ink onto the inside of a matchbook cover, the sun was dying on the horizon. It was finally time.

There are parts of L.A. that you don't go during the day, because they're not there yet. The buildings are, the streets, the addresses; but they're not themselves. They only become themselves in under the buzzing streetlamps, in the shadows between them, in the corners and alleyways out of their reach. He was going to one such place, one he'd been before and sworn to never go again.

"You're an idiot, Happy," he muttered as he turned the key in the ignition. "You've always been an idiot."

He drove through the thinning traffic, watching for tails, making random turns, pulling last-second U-turns, cursing and blessing his paranoia. He was almost certain he'd lost whoever or whatever had been following him by the time he reached the address.

Once upon a time, the Mob ran the Nondescript. They'd been bought out or scared off, likely the latter. He parked, he looked around, he pulled the gun out of his belt and checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

In the old days, there would have been a bouncer working the door to keep troublemakers out, big guy, the sort that never has to show you his gun to get your respect; the stool outside the Nondescript was ostentatiously empty.

Hap was out of the car, walking with a purpose, head down, right hand heavy in his suit pocket. The neon sign was dark, but there were lights inside. He didn't figure on knocking; he burst in without breaking stride, scanned the room, found her.

Aulia. She was impossible to miss: skin-tight red dress slit up the side, plunging neckline. He had the gun out and up and pointed at her before he realized that there were other people in the place, men sitting at tables, men no doubt with guns of their own. "What did you do to Mikey Scissors?"

The woman looked at him coolly, with a detached disregard that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. After a moment, Hap realized that the men — Aulia's men, the goons at the tables — hadn't moved, hadn't stood, hadn't drawn their guns. She smiled. "You'd better come back to my office."

"I'm not playing games, lady."

There was a snicker from somewhere behind him and to the left. Aulia turned and walked towards the back, not looking to see if Hap was complying or curling his finger tighter around the trigger. She's not afraid of me. None of them are. It was an act of will to lower the gun and follow.

The office was ornate and stylish and smelled of sex and ashes. "Please sit down." She made her way behind the desk and sat. "I'm not sure how much you know, so I'll have to start at the beginning. How are you acquainted with Michael?"

Mikey Scissors, small-time bookie and sometimes informant. "I arrested him a couple times, when I was a cop."

"And now you're a private detective." It wasn't a question. "More lucrative? Better hours."

He wasn't in the mood for jokes, and the adrenaline was starting to make him jumpy. "I saw Mikey burning to death, and you were there. Now—"

She smiled. "Things aren't always what they appear, Mister Dash. I didn't kill Michael, he's very much alive. He works for me."

"Doing what?"

She fished a cigarette out of slim silver case that snapped shut between her fingers. She put it to her lips already lit, as if it had been burning in the case. "You were with the police for eight years, you know at least part of the score. Yes?"

Hap said nothing. She knows me, like she researched me, like she was expecting me to come.

"You have to fill out paperwork. It must be frustrating, yes? So much unexplained. I'd think it'd be worse for the coroner, of course."

"Listen, lady—"

"Aulia. I belong to one of four factions, factions that use magic. Each faction's focus — its fealty, if you will — is to one of the four schools of magic, centered on the four classical elements: earth, water, air, and fire. You've seen that silly children's show?"

"Sure. My niece watches it."

"It's ridiculous fluff, of course, but that's the basic idea. There's some areas of overlap, and we can cooperate in those areas when we choose, but the reality is most of the time we barely tolerate each other. The Fire and Water factions, for example, have been in a feud for longer than you've been alive."

"A feud."

"We kill one of them, they kill two of us, we burn down a building, they flood a town. It's all we can do to keep it from getting truly out of hand. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Not really."

How many unexplained drownings? How many cases of spontaneous human combustion? That man in the easy chair, only his arms intact. The woman in the tub, the bone-dry tub, lungs full of water. 'I'd think it'd be worse for the coroner', she'd said. Goddammit. "Mikey. He was… water?"

"No. I already told you, Mister Dash. He's fire. He works for me. What did you see?"

"He was standing there. Two guys, one on either side. You walked up, they backed away. You held up your hand, and…"

"And he burst into flame."

"Like oilmen burning off a wellhead." Hap shuddered. He'd run, he'd left the car where he'd parked it and ran eight blocks, until he was sure it was safe to walk.

Aulia smiled, pushed a button on the intercom. "You can send him back now." After a moment, the door behind Hap swung open and…

Mikey Scissors, grinning. "How are ya, Hap? Good?"

"What you saw," Aulia said, "Was a reward."

Princess Of Mars

There’s maybe twenty people in the compartment: miners, or ex-miners, or whatever. She is suddenly very aware that she is wearing a dress and heels that were lifted from Earth, and that neither have dust anywhere on them, nor is there any in her hair or smudged onto her skin.

Jimmy whispers to her, "Be cool."

It’s the third time Jimmy the Bits has said it, and it’s getting tiresome. The party is definitely down in the sketchier sections of the dome’s lower levels, but it’s not like she’s some delicate flower just because the Managing Supervisor is her father. "Why are you nervous, Jimmy? You said it was all right to bring me—"

"It’s cool. Everybody knows Jimmy." Everybody does, whether they want to or not; knowing Jimmy the Bits can go either way. "Lemme introduce you around."

Jimmy introduces her to a series of people, and they are polite if a bit cool. There are eyes boring into the back of her head wherever she goes in the compartment. Maybe some of them know who she is, maybe not, but they all think they know what she is. Whatever, it’s not like people don’t stare at me in the upper levels.

Jimmy takes her elbow and pulls her to stand in front of a big guy with leathery skin and a patchy beard. Jimmy says, respectfully, as if she is being presented to a Company Director or some Earth Senator on a fact-finding mission, "Yonk, this is Melody."

Yonk nods by raising his head once and then lowering it. “That your real name? 'Melody'?”

"No, it’s just a name I use sometimes. But I like it. Is ‘Yonk’ your real name?"

The room titters, and Yonk grins. "Real name is Stewart. They just call me Yonk."

"Why? What does it mean?"

Jimmy looks pained. Yonk smirks, as if delighted at the opportunity to explain. "Meatie. Pudder." Someone behind her yells, "Cock!" The snickering has graduated into full-on laughter, around her, behind her. Yonk continues, "When we finish a shift we have to clean off. Hose down the outside of the suit in the lock, then shower. Whole gang all in the shower at once. First day on the job, end of the day, everybody sees my yonk, I get the name."

She raises her eyebrows. "Because it’s big, or because it’s small?"

It’s suddenly very quiet in the compartment. Jimmy is white as a sheet, and shifts his weight as if he wants to step away from her, put some distance between them. Yonk, thankfully, doesn’t lose his grin. "It’s big enough for you, I think."

"Well, if you’ll find me something to drink, maybe I’ll let you show it to me. And then we’ll know."

Yonk laughs, a hearty belly laugh that shakes the bulkheads; everybody else is thereby given permission to laugh and the party resumes. A bottle of something home-brewed that would get someone arrested if her father saw it is pressed into her hand.

He Kindly Stopped For Me

He made it to where route 40 crossed route 10 before he was too weak to walk. He sank slowly to the ground, as if he feared he'd break, as if the snow-covered median strip was moving, spinning, threatening to throw him off like an ill-tempered horse. He doubled over, dry-heaving, groaning and coughing and dangling spittle from blue-tinged lips.

"You don't sound so good."

He looked up, blinked, squinted, held out a glove-covered hand to block the cold, useless sun. A zombie stood crotch-deep in a drift, icicles hanging from its gaping mouth, frozen nearly solid. It wasn't moving. It couldn't move. He was safe enough. "Fuck you."

"You have radiation sickness."

He closed his eyes again, sank back against the snow, head spinning, not really feeling the cold as much as he'd expected. All he felt was the pounding in his head and the churning of his stomach. "You can't talk. You're dead. You're a zombie."

"You were too close to the blast. Kansas City? You walk from there? I'm amazed you got this far."

There had been a flash. He would have been blinded had he not been looking West, fooled by echoes of jet engine noise bouncing off buildings. "Going to… Topeka."

"What do you think you'll find there?" The zombie sounded amused. "I was in Topeka. I died there, in the hospital. I got shot after that, twice, but they missed the brain. I followed the smell of fresh meat East. Then it snowed."

He tugged at his knit cap, pulling it down as far as he could without covering his eyes. "Shut up. Just… shut up." He couldn't shoot it: he'd dropped his guns, along with his backpack, miles back on the road. They'd gotten so heavy.

"Sure. You want your last moments to be peaceful, I guess. I get that. Mine weren't that peaceful. It was pretty bad in the hospital, crying and screaming and panic." The voice seemed closer now; he didn't want to look. "There's nothing in Topeka anymore worth going. They'll nuke it too, eventually, unless they run out of bombs. You'd be better off trying to get to Fort Riley. But you're not getting up: you're going to die right there, and turn, and then we can be friends."

"Go to hell." He tried to push himself up from the snow, but his arms wouldn't cooperate. His head spun from the effort, and he collapsed back with a crunch. "Go to hell…"

"It has to be frustrating. You were immune; I bet you always knew you would be. You had guns, you were ready, you would have made it. Then they nuked you. Did your hair fall out?"

He didn't answer. He didn't feel cold at all anymore, and even his stomach seemed to be calming. He'd rest, just a little longer, and then he'd get up and walk the rest of the way to Topeka. He'd make it. He'd make it. He just needed to sleep a while.

Gunakadeit

The sorcerer's only excuse was that he'd been sleeping when they'd appeared out of the rolling fog at full sail, slid alongside starboard with pitch-dipped arrows trained, and signaled for Mellesdane to surrender. He awoke to the clamor of shouting and the thunder of heavy boots against the deck overhead.

A steward came to fetch him, young and terrified. "You must come now, My Lord. We are taken by Raiegan pirates."

"Not to worry, friend." He took the time to dress in his best finery as the steward trembled in the doorway. "All will be well."

Once he was dressed, they made their way to the ladder and up into the sun. The Captain and crew of Mellesdane had been lined up on the weather deck, guarded by sword-wielding pirates whose Captain stood on the forecastle.

"Good morning," the sorcerer said, pleasantly.

"And who are you?" The pirate Captain snarled.

Mellesdane's Captain called out, in a valiant attempt to cover what he imagined must be the obvious. "A nobleman from the Southern Coast, and my passenger. He has done nothing to—" a Raiegan gave him a blow to the stomach for his trouble.

"A nobleman, are you? Would there be those willing to pay a ransom for your safe return to shore, then? From the looks of you, I'd wager aye."

"Perhaps, if you knew who to ask, which of course you don't. In any event you'd never live to spend it."

"Do not invoke my wrath."

The sorcerer smiled. "We're far out over a deep sea, Captain. There are worse things hereabouts than you and your men for one to fear; yet I do not fear them. What do you glean from that?"

"That you're a fool in need of a—" The pirate Captain froze in place, eyes fixed and widening.

The deep ocean contains very old horrors, things of immense bulk and appetite. Such a creature — easily as big as either ship — was approaching from astern, driving ahead of its massive head a great white churning bow-wave.

"You have suffered a misfortune, Captain. You have raided the wrong ship. It is an easy mistake to correct: leave your spoils where they are and go."

Some of the pirates turned to follow their Captain's gaze, spied the approaching creature, and a murmur of panic rose from within their ranks. They began inching towards the planks that joined their deck to Mellesdane's. When the creature let sound a terrifying noise, that motion exploded into a frenzied scramble.

The pirate Captain was not far behind. Soon their planks were withdrawn and their sails set and they were pulling away. They picked up speed as the monster approached, barely staying ahead of it as they headed for the horizon.

"Was it real?" Mellesdane's Captain asked, at the sorcerer's elbow.

"What?"

"The beast! I have seen you conjure illusions to delight an audience and I have seen you call down sparrows to carry a message, My Lord. Which!?"

The sorcerer grinned.

Bothros

It's tough, being alone. Being a Cape is lonely enough, but after Mandy left the absence of our 'us against the world' thing felt like falling across a fence when you're a kid and having the wind knocked out of you. I couldn't breathe.

I got rid of the apartment and started bunking at HQ. I busied myself with work. After we bagged Panix, Dreamland One sent Rapture and I out after Methis. When we caught him, we were sent right back out after Cetacea. We returned with her safely imprisoned in the pressure-tank and D1 surprised us by adding Headmaster to our team.

We didn't like him. "I'll be the brains of the operation." Sure, buddy. Just don't get in the way. Privately, Rapture made jokes about his head overheating and bursting like a balloon. Publicly, she made it clear that B Team didn't need a 'leader', and she only took orders from D1. I didn't care either way. I missed Mandy.

D1 had us run drills, exercises, whatever. For all her posturing Rapture learned to trust Headmaster's precog skills. Soon we were a well-oiled machine, a 3-pronged deadly weapon.

Headmaster started getting visions that clearly disturbed him. He wouldn't tell us what they were. He told D1, though, so we kept our mouths shut. The operational tempo increased. High-tech equipment hummed in every corner. The lawn outside HQ became a dish farm. A couple of the staff quit to 'spend time with their families'. D1 was red-lined 12 hours a day, running and re-running simulations at 57.39 petaflops per second.

Rapture and I waited to be let in on the secret. We practiced our moves, exercised our powers. I picked up a few more KPH; she worked on setting things on fire from BVR. Nobody told us anything.

---

My whole body hurt. I got up anyway.

Everything East of the Oberbaumbrücke was a tear in the Earth the size of the Grand Canyon, into which the river Spree poured like a broken faucet. Everything West of the bridge was wreathed in smoke and broken plate glass. I was amazed at how little was on fire. It was eerily quiet.

I walked to the edge of the gouge, looked down. Lying on its side, oozing black goo, was the mind-bogglingly immense corpse of the Mo Ten Rah.

I'd never fought a God before. A Team's plan had spectacularly failed to work. Lead it towards us! had come Headmaster's voice, an icepick in my brain. I remember running up the highway, the enormous horror close behind me, hoping D1 had managed the evacuation in time; I remembering the crashing of its footfalls ceasing; I remember looking back to see it rising into the air, glowing like Rapture glows; I remember wondering where she was getting that kind of power. Then I woke up on the pavement under a blanket of dust and debris and silence.

I walked back West. I found Rapture sitting in the back of an army truck guarded by soldiers, sobbing, blood trickling from her nose and ears. They'd already sent for a Doctor. She wouldn't look at me. The Headmaster was a body and a mess of a neck sitting upright in the passenger seat of a cordoned-off jeep and that was that.

Dreamland helicopters passed overhead; I expected them all to land at the Sportplatz but one circled around at the last minute and set down in the middle of the street.

Mandy got out. Later she told me I looked like one big man-shaped bruise. She kissed me anyway. We'll need a new apartment.

The Sentinel

The sorcerer had no difficulty gaining access to the long-abandoned Keep. He climbed the long stone stairway, made his way inside, found a dusty table in the Lord High Constable's room, and laid out his books. No one had been brave enough to accompany him.

An eerie voice sounded behind him. "You wish to read to me, warlock?"

The sorcerer turned, regarded the spectral figure of a knight in plate armor leaning on a greatsword as if it were a cane. "If you like."

"I'd wager you have stories to rival my own. Perhaps you even fought some of the same battles?"

The sorcerer chuckled, "I'm not that old, Carisbrooke."

"You know me?" The ghost cocked his head to one side.

"The whole of the valley knows you." The sorcerer said respectfully. "They warned me of the danger."

"To them I am the ghost in the castle. You name me."

"I've done my research. I wasn't sure until I saw your crest, there on the hilt of your sword. I thought you might be Baron Fellenmaine or even Old Shmorid the Wilting."

"Fellenmaine fled before the battle. I don't know what became of him. Hopefully great ill. Shmorid died outside in the bailey, honorably. Presumably he went to his rest."

"Yet you did not."

"My oath to the King binds me even after death, or so it would seem. I have no cause for complaint."

"So here you are. John of Carisbrooke, John the Red, right hand of the last of the Old Macklish Kings, Ælbrad—"

"Æl-bard."

"My apologies. You fell defending the Keep and your King from the invading Vedek army. At some point later you reappeared as an apparition, and the Vedek fled. Since then you have driven any and all invaders from the Keep."

"I can do little things. Knock over a flagon here, blow out a candle there. And of course the ghostly visage you see before you now. It's usually enough."

"…For seven hundred years."

"Has it been? And on what invader's behalf do you propose to end my hauntings?"

"There are no invaders, Sir John. Only me."

The ghost shimmered with laughter. "Very well, recite your incantations. Expel me, evict me, exorcise me. Do your worst. Others have tried, but perhaps they were not as powerful as you. I'm fascinated to see if it finally works."

"The books aren't spellcraft, Sir John, they're history books. They're for you."

"What need have I for—"

"To read. The history of the valley, seven hundred years' worth, starting with Ælbard's death. The wars are over, Sir John. The valley is well-ruled from a capitol far down the coast, two hundred seventy years now. Read. I'll turn pages for you if it's too much effort."

The specter seemed incredulous. "You would teach me history?"

"The towns of the valley want to repair the Keep, use it as a museum. It would be good for tourism, put gold in their pockets. You're all that stands in the way. Read."

Guess What's Coming To Dinner

"Hang on just a minute, young lady."

"He's waiting for me outside."

"I don't know where you think you're going, but—"

"You said I could go, we talked about this."

"That was before I knew who you would be going with. And now, looking out the window, I can plainly see why you didn't tell me."

"Oh, I knew you were going to do this. But I'm eighteen years old and I can associate with whomever—"

"As long as you're living under my roof, you'll live by my rules."

"Is that really what you want? You want me to move out? You want me to leave?"

"You know that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying… I'm saying that you're not going anywhere with him. If that's even…"

"What? If that's even what?"

"Never mind. You—"

"'If that's even a him'? Is that what you were going to say? I can't believe you."

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it. You know you were."

"Leonard, aren't you going to say anything?"

"Oh, don't try to drag Dad into this; this is all you."

"Fine. It's me. I don't want you going. I don't want you seeing him, I don't want you hanging around with him. I don't trust him. I don't want you ending up like him. That's not how we raised you."

"I'm not going to Upgrade, mom. First of all, I couldn't afford it even if I wanted to. Second of all, I'm happy the way I am. You don't have to worry about that."

"I just don't understand why you'd want to socialize with those people."

"Who, Upgrades? He's an Upgrade, Mom. You can say it. He's post-human. He wanted more out of his life, and had the money to do it. But he's still a person."

"Not the way I look at it."

"Oh please, you've had your tits done and your face done and lipo twice."

"That's different. I'm still me."

"He's still him."

"You didn't know him before he did it."

"Whatever. You've been listening to those—"

"What if you fell in love? What if you wanted to get married? Have children? What would they look like? What would they be?"

"They'd be Upgrades too, at least partially. The genetic stuff would get passed along, it's dominant, they designed it that way. They'd get the implants when they were old enough. If they wanted them, anyway. Maybe they wouldn't, who knows. It'd be their choice."

"And you think that would be all right with you? As a mother?"

"Sure."

"…I just don't think you've given this a lot of thought."

"Well, of course not. We're not even boyfriend and girlfriend. We're just going on a date."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Well, it's not up to you."

"Fine. Have it your way. You'll learn."

"Learn what? No seriously, learn what? I've been around Upgrades my whole life. They go to my school. They go to the same parties I go to, the same dance clubs. They're everywhere. You just don't see them because they don't go to your church and they don't go to your spinning class. So you don't get it. You think they're monsters because you've never seen one up close."

"And I'm sure I don't want to."

"Guess what? You win. I'm not going out. I'm staying in. And so's he. He's eating with us. And you can ask him anything you want. Put out two more plates. No, don't look at Dad, this is happening."

"Oh, God."

"And he doesn't eat meat, so do your veggie casserole."

"Oh, God."

We Don't Do Magic

She was a movie star, or would have been if the world was right. She sang a familiar song: the husband with a wandering eye and a zipper that was down when it should be up. She already knew where he'd be, she'd found a receipt. Too easy.

I had half a roll of beauty shots of the seedy airport motel before the mark even showed. He was exactly the type you'd expect: doughy, sweaty, clothes off the wrong rack. I've never been able to understand why a mook like that steps out when he's already fighting over his weight class at home.

Camera time. The mark knocked on the door. Click. He looked over his shoulder. Click. The door opens…

It was the movie star, only instead of dressed to the nines she was down to her ones and twos. Click. I'm making a personal copy of that one, I thought. She reached out to grab him by the tie, pulled him in, and the door shut behind him, leaving his fedora rolling on its rim outside. It looked lonely. Click. I'm a goddamned artist with this thing.

A billy-club rapped against the rolled-up passenger's side window. "Move it along, friend."

"Sure thing, officer." I had what I came for.

Why would the dame run me in circles? I could understand spicing things up with a little role-play before the dirty deed. And some girls get a cheap thrill out of a cheap room. If the movie star was playing a game, was paying me good money part of it?

Well why not ask her, you big palooka.

The next day she comes into the office. She played it straight. Fine, if that's the way you want it, I thought. I laid out the evidence. The money shot of her in her unmentionables was the big finish. I didn't bother with the lonely fedora. "Look familiar?"

The waterworks started. "I can't believe he would do it!"

"Do what, sister? Spill it."

"He wanted to bring in another girl, see? You know how you men are. But I said no dice. I'm not a prude, it's just… who could we trust? So he says, 'You trust yourself, don't you? Why don't we just make a copy?' But I said—"

"A what?"

"A copy. A copy of me." She looked up at me and shrugged as she wiped her nose. "You know, magic."

"Your husband's a warlock? And you had me following him dumb."

"I'll pay you double."

"I don't want your money. I don't want your case; I stay away from arcana."

"I just don't understand why he would do it over my express ob—"

"Are you out of your mind? Of course he made the copy. He probably did it while you were asleep, and set her up at the hotel and was back before you woke up. She'll do everything you won't, and it isn't even cheating, not really."

She stormed out. At least I have the photo.

Your Money's No Good Here

"This seat taken?"

"Suit yourself." The stranger slid onto the stool next to him, in an empty bar. Carl couldn't help noticing that the man's shoulders were dry. "Stop raining out there?"

"I hadn't noticed it raining before. How long have you been in here?"

"Not sure. No clocks in a bar, after all."

"Why do you think that is?"

Carl shrugged. "They want you to stay, keep drinking, spending your money. Man looks at a clock, remembers somewhere else he's supposed to be, someone he's supposed to meet, something he forgot to do, and he leaves. No clock, he stays, he drinks. Same deal in the casinos in Vegas."

"I've never been. Too late now, of course."

"Why is that?"

The stranger just chuckled, then looked up and down the bar. "Anybody working?"

"Francis went to the back to look for something. He'll be out in a minute."

"You order something fancy, did you?"

"Never." He held up his beer.

The stranger waited for a moment, then shook his head. "Well, I'm not standing on ceremony." He leaned over the rail, grabbed a clean glass, and pulled himself a beer from the tap. After taking a sip, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of strange-looking cash, dropping a single bill on the bar.

Carl stared at it for a moment, then reached out, took it between two fingers, held it up to the light. "Um."

"What?"

"I don't think he'll take that."

"What do you mean?" The stranger sipped his beer again. "There's no 'EPay-Only' sign."

"Right, well, I've never heard of that, but your money's no good. Look at it." He stretched it out between two hands. "First of all, the date says '2076'."

"So? Just because it hasn't been recycled yet doesn't mean it's no good."

Carl stared at him. "Can I see the rest of that roll? I promise I won't steal it. I'm a regular. Anyway, you're between me and the door."

The stranger pulled out the wad, took off the clip, laid it on the bar. The oldest bill was 2062, a twenty. Green, red, with yellow highlights. The signature was illegible; the picture was Reagan.

Carl took out his wallet, looked inside, was oddly relieved to find his own familiar money. He puled out a twenty: green, 2007, Andrew Jackson. Signed by Henry M. Paulson. He laid them side-by-side.

The stranger whistled. "Brother, how long have you been in this bar?"

Carl stood up, leaving his twenty where it lay. He looked at the door; he turned back to the stranger. He wondered aloud, like he was sounding out a math problem, "How much time passed between when Francis went into the back and when you came in?"

The stranger shrugged, volunteered: "How would I know?"

"I'm saying, how would I know? No clocks. And I'm not wearing a watch."

"It couldn't have been that long. You would've starved to death." He tapped his finger on the 2007 twenty. "Hell, you would have died of old age."

"We should check on Francis."

"Fuck Francis, he had to have been in on it." Carl headed for the front door.

"Wait." The stranger stood up, brought him his twenty. "You'll need this. You can't spend it, but it'll be worth real money, to a collector."

"Thanks." They shook hands. Carl put a sweaty palm against the front door, took a deep breath, and pushed.