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THE MUSEUM OF TERROR, says the shadow of a stencil on the concrete wall. Hidebound fiddles with the fire exit and drags him in; Zach wonders if he is to be the latest exhibit, or a curator.

There’s an old chair with straps on it. Hidebound sits him down hard, puts the straps to their intended use, and pulls up a little stool.

“Why are we here?” says Zach. He can feel holes in the chair under his hands and feet.

“Atmosphere,” says Hidebound. He removes a silver cigarette lighter from his boot.

Hidebound, Zach happens to know, does not smoke.