Valentine woke up dreaming of the beach, wispy images of the dark shore clinging to the fringes of her consciousness. It took her longer than usual to locate herself in the world, in time—something was tugging her back toward that other place.

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Daniel King sat drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon and making a list. Spread out on the wooden bar of his Aunt Marina’s tavern, the Rebel Moon, were pens, loose pieces of scrap paper, and half a dozen notebooks.

New York City, a few years from now. Just before closing time.

Valentine crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Keep running, girl.