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New York

“It’s like… broccoli, and oats,” says Bert vaguely. “And some kind of gravy.”

“You’ve never actually had Indian food, have you?” Ellis unzips his coat: the sun’s out now, though slips of cloud are flickering over it. “Is this like the time you thought Steely Dan was Danielle Steele?”

“You’re never going to let–”

“Maybe,” says Ellis, grinning, “you actually oh my God!”

He grabs Bert and runs for the nearest building. Bert’s trying to see, wild, stumbling, finally looking up.

The buffalo are diving from the sky. They are tight-winged and mad-eyed. Their hooves are sharp as talons.

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