Dying for a second time didn’t hit as hard, but it was still jarring. I didn’t even open the lid. I floated in the nothingness, focusing on the glide of Lisa’s bracelet against my skin. My head throbbed harder with every heartbeat—not a single pulse, but a strange double rhythm. When the soft blue light returned, I y for another few seconds, already weary of what would happen next.

  When I left the pod room and approached Luanda, I found myself detached, focused on details that had slipped by me, not listening as she gave the same greeting, “How was it? Did you like it?” The words were too familiar. Instead, I observed how her box braids moved, the shadows that fell on the mahogany veneer, and the faint smell of truck exhaust filtering in from outside on the street.

  I gave a forced smile and replied, “It was fine, but I had weird hallucinations. Is that normal?”

  Luanda shrugged. “People have all kinds of reactions. Some people come here explicitly to have hallucinations. I’ve had some people tell me they felt like they were flying. Others say things like ‘the world was extra bright’ when they get out.”

  “I kept imagining getting up and coming back in here. Then, I leave, and that guy I mentioned shoots me. After that, I’m back in the pod. Like Groundhog Day but with bullets.”

  Her thick eyebrows rose as I spoke. “Damn, that’s wild. What kind of gun did he use?” It was as though the talk of guns and bullets had gotten her attention. Even the afterimages were more animated, straying farther from her and in different directions.

  “I don’t know guns. A rifle. The first time, I didn’t even see it, just heard the shot. The second time, I got a better look—weird shape, not like the military rifles you see in movies or whatever.”

  Her mouth twitched into a faint smirk at my obvious ck of gun knowledge. “It was the same guy you said was after you?”

  “Yeah. Nike jacket guy.”

  Her scrutiny was unwavering. “He came by right after you went in. Showed me a driver's license photo. I noticed the name wasn’t yours, but the picture sure was. Definitely not a cop. Very nasty vibes, or I would have told him where you were.”

  Since this felt like yet another hallucination, I decided to tell her something closer to the truth and not worry about the consequences. “Yes, sorry, the jealousy thing was bullshit. I stole a bunch of money, and I guess they're pretty salty because they sent that John Wick wannabe after me. I came in here to hide.”

  “What the fuck,” she said, her hand going to her purse. I noticed her slight California accent had faded, and her tone had a knife-like crity, punctuating each word. “You thought it was fine to just include me in your fucked up crap? Just clear the fuck out.” As she spoke, the afterimages multiplied in ways I hadn’t seen before. One put its hand in her purse and started to pull out a gun before disappearing. For a moment, the purse itself had afterimages. She gred at me, arms crossed, as I paused, watching images fade and others appear.

  “Look,” I said, raising my hands apologetically. “I didn’t mean to drop any of this on you. I just wanted to know if there was another way out of here, maybe an employee entrance.”

  She shook her head. “There’s a fire exit in the back, but the door is armed. Just take your bullshit problems and go.”

  I gnced down the hall, past the rooms with the pods, and spotted the clearly lit fire exit. I hurried towards it, but she called after me, “Don’t go out that way; it will set off the arm!”

  I ignored her, shoved open the door, and stepped outside. The bright light hit me, making me squint for a second. As my eyes adjusted, I heard feet pounding to my left. I turned to see a muscur white guy with tightly cropped hair running directly toward me. I tried to run, but he had too much momentum. Before I could take two steps, he tackled me, smming me face-down into the pavement.

  As I hit the ground, my face slid across the uneven surface, and pain exploded across my cheek. I tasted the salty, metallic fvor of blood in my mouth, and I felt my arms being yanked hard behind my back. I heard the zip of pstic ties and felt them cutting painfully into my wrists. Off to the side, the door arm bleated angrily, compining about being opened. His hands patted up and down my sides, back, and legs.

  Strong fingers gripped my right arm around the bicep, and he flipped me over as if I weighed nothing. On my back, with my hands painfully crushed under me against the rough bcktop, I got my first detailed look at the man who had tackled me. His eyes were dark, and his skin was tanned. His hair was extremely short, giving him a vaguely military appearance. His body was trim, with a muscur build—the kind of solid physique you might expect from a rock climber or gymnast.

  He pressed one knee firmly against my chest, causing the pain in my wrists to intensify as the added weight pressed them harder into the unyielding surface. The other leg bent at a 90-degree angle, and he leaned back, straightening his posture, kneeling on me like a hunter posing after a trophy hunt. He reached into a pocket of his brown khaki pants and pulled out a small, old-school flip phone, quickly dialing a number.

  After a moment, he spoke in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. “Yes, you were right; he was in one of the shops. I caught him trying to sneak out the back.” He paused briefly before adding, “But hurry; he set off the door arm, and we’re going to attract attention.”

  I lifted my head, looked up at him, and asked, “Hey, can you ease up off my chest with your knee? I can’t breathe, and my hands are getting crushed.” His eyes remained cold and dismissive.

  He bent over, pced a hand on my forehead, and pushed the back of my head hard into the pavement. The pain was quick and sharp, making my vision swim for an instant, and I heard him say in a measured tone, “Look, just keep quiet unless we tell you to talk. You’re in a lot of trouble, computer boy. Don’t make it harder on yourself.” His voice was calm, almost bored—but his upturned lips showed a hint of glee.

  Remaining silent, I closed my eyes and told myself: It’s okay. None of this is real; you’ll be back in the tank soon.

  Despite the detached, dreamlike haze, the pain, even muted, was too real to ignore. I wondered how long it would be before I woke up again. Then a thought came to me that made my jaw clench.

  Fuck, do I need to die to wake up? Will Luanda find me when the time’s up and open the tank?

  Either scenario was terrible. I wanted no part of what seemed to be coming next. I just wanted to wake up back in the tank immediately.

  How could I make myself do that? Rexing was impossible. Not with the orangutan on my chest. I couldn't even slow my breathing.

  I heard a car pull up just a foot or two away from my head, and the linebacker lifted me to my feet. I opened my eyes as the door of the blue Nissan swung open. A rough shove sent me into the back seat, my head smming the frame on the way in, making my vision swim again..

  The man in the Nike jogging suit was in the front seat, looking back at me with a detached interest. I realized now that he was older than I'd initially thought—probably in his mid to te forties. His brown hair showed traces of gray, but his gaze had the intensity of an earnest father trying to figure out how to deal with a son who had just broken a window. I noticed the back end of the short-barreled rifle Luanda had described as a bullpup protruding from the passenger seat.

  The car smelled like some kind of oil and body odor, but underlying it was the smell of my blood dripping down my face from a cut I must have gotten when I was smmed into the ground.

  The linebacker forced his forearm under my neck and roughly pushed me back into my seat as the car accelerated. Then, he reached across me and fastened my seatbelt. Watching us pull away, one thought chilled me: this is way worse than getting shot.