They look like poker chips, a little heavy, milled around the edges.

“They’re used,” says Lange, “to purchase changes in a subjective reality.”

“Wishes?” says Grosvenor, dubiously rolling one over her knuckles.

“Not really. They change stories, not the real world. Or not directly. Think of them as every fanfic writer’s wet dream.”

Heddis looks up. “Books? TV?”

“Or movies,” Lange grins, “music, games–maybe Aeris doesn’t die? Maybe Prospero keeps Caliban tied down. Maybe Mister Folds and his Five changed their minds, and they’re coming to LA after all.”

Grosvenor chews her lip. “What are they called?”

“Bangs,” he says.

Who taught the roots to mirror the branches?

Shidra leans back and exhales. “Junk was like pissing in the pool next to this, man.”

Vyasa grins and nods. “Pass the book–”

What do all fingers seek to touch?

Tranquility ices his chest, his shoulders and neck. “Mother of fuck,” he gasps, and reads another.

How did the master lie with a question?

He gurgles and thrashes the book away. “Shit! He’s enlightening!” yells Kavi.

Vyasa’s eyes are white; his nose foams. “Grab his shoulders!” Shidra snaps, stabbing three mils of worldly desires into Vyasa’s chest and slapping the plunger home.

Typing on the store’s touch screen is agonizing, one. Letter. At. A time, and even when he’s done they’ve got nothing in stock. “Barenaked?” No. “Barelaked?” No.

“Are you ready to go?” His mom shuffles CDs.

“Yeah,” Schroeder says. “Okay.”

“Listen, Schroeder.” She looks around, hunted, then mutters too loudly. “Can you get me this? Off the Internet.”

He winces. “No, Mom.”

“Why not?”

The sheer explanation required weakens him. “You can’t get music anymore, okay? TV maybe. Anyway–” He squints at it. “Jesus, Mom, he’s younger than me.”

“What?” She looks more hunted. “He has an–an excellent voice!”

All through the hood, the children are whispering: tonight. Tonight is the night!

A pair of dubs, a bag of rubbers, maybe a fifth of Tanqueray–the children will take their special gifts and leave them in the secret spot under the porch. They’ll try not to sleep, and fail; and in the night, the Chronic Fairy will arrive–

And when the children wake and turn their pillows, oh! Dime bags and nickel bags! Spliffs and bricks!

“Thank you, Chronic Fairy!” they’ll shriek in delight.

And the Doctor will smile, and flutter his wings, and whizz away home to the Aftermath.

“You happy now?” gasps India, and hacks blood. She’s grinning. “Nobody wins.” Caradog’s lolled back in the chair, face white.

“Shut up!” he says. He’s tearing pictures off the walls, yanking back the bolster. “Where the fuck is it!”

“What?” India squints. “Jesus, you’re losing it.”

“The damn reset!” he shouts. “It has to be here! It has to bNNEET”

“–friends, okay?” India spreads her hands. “Here for business. Pat me down if you want.”

“Forget it,” grunts Caradog. “Nobody’s going to do anything stupid. Right, Pensieve?”

Pensieve stares at her, pulse racing. Remember. There’s something he’s supposed to remember.