I check the time; the moon is high in the sky. I head for the cafeteria, thinking dark thoughts about what I'd like to do to Officer Hart if I cross his path in a deserted hallway; but the smell of hospital food makes me gag, even though I'm hungry. Instead I slink into a men's room that doesn't get much traffic, take a pill, and sit a while on the toilet, feet up; every so often I head out to check the time. It passes more quickly than I imagine possible. At around 2:30 my head hurts so badly that I steal a bag of soup from a refrigerator. At about 4:30 I give thanks that the sun rises early in the winter, then collect my things and head for my bike, keeping a careful eye out because I don't think I can handle running into Meena coming in. The cotton clouds wick the light across the sky like water, infecting each raindrop with its own tiny sun.

I almost tear the door of the house off its hinges. There is no visible disorder in the hall. I fling a couple of bags of soup into the fridge and enter my room without knocking. Tasha's there, amid scattered boxes. She's dressed comfortably but sharply, all in light shades of red and violet; she's clean now, put together, almost unrecognizable as the cut-up, half-catatonic woman I'd met at the hospital. There's a phone as sleek as a shark by her desk, all chrome and bright glass. "Has anyone been here?" I ask.

"The lancet liver fluke," she says, pointing at the screen.

"What?" I ask, not looking.

"Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. It's a fungus. The spores infect a carpenter ant and give it convulsions so it falls off its tree. Then the fungus makes it march up the stem of a plant and clamp onto a leaf—"

"John has a boner for parasites," I say. "Ask him about the lancet liver fluke sometime. Has anyone been here?"

"Just John," Tasha says. "Who are you worried about?"

"Someone was killed at the hospital," I say. "The police asked me about you."

Tasha looks at me now, straight on. "As a suspect or a victim?"

"Come on."

"It's a fair question." I look at the dark line where the bullet must have streaked her temple, the messy scars on her neck. "Drake, I never killed anybody in my life. If you can call it a life."

There's something amused, expectant, behind her eyes. "There's something you're not telling me," I say. "Tell me."

She sucks a quick breath in through her teeth, as though I've pricked her with a needle. "Well," she says, "when I was twelve, DeSean Wright and I went behind the bleachers—"

"Don't get clever, Tasha."

That same inbreath, baring her teeth. "Fine," she says. "I never said I didn't see the body."

Fuck. "You pillaged the body."

"I needed clothes."

I gesture toward her. "You got them, I see."

"With my own money."

"Where did you get money?"

"My deadbeat husband is probably still drying out in a jail cell somewhere," she says coolly, "or if he isn't, he was still stupid enough not to change the password on our bank accounts."

I screw my eyes shut and pinch the skin of my forehead, right above the space between my eyebrows. "Tasha," I say, "they can trace that. As soon as he sees the money's gone, he'll tell someone and they'll find out where you are."

"Damn," Tasha says, "you're right. If only the library were open late on weekdays, I could have used a public computer to execute this obviously shady financial transaction and save us all a heap of trouble."

I look at her, baffled; she looks back, annoyed. "I thought you were homeless," I say.

"When your husband cuts you, you don't go back home."

"I mean you were out of your mind."

"My mind wasn't any cozier than my house. Look," she says, "I'm parched. Want to go out?"

"There's some soup in the fridge."

"I don't like leftovers."

I think about the risks of being seen with Tasha again, especially with Meena's brother-in-law on the police force. They know where I live, where to look. Then again, she's changed. Still a slim African-American woman in her mid-twenties, still scarred in places that would identify her, but already miles away from the battered wraith I'd run into in rad-onc. "What the hell," I say. "It's a beautiful day. My treat."

She looks at me with a sort of fond perplexity. "You have absolutely no idea what's going on here, do you?"

I shrug and give her my most trusting smile. "You'll tell me when you're ready."

"I will." She rises. In heels, she's just taller than me; she looks spectacular. "I could pay," she says. "But I know a place where they will serve Your Majesty for free."