The fire station’s open garage door frames the sunset like a painting. Brandon and his crab-like co-escort—I found out his name is Jeb—have built a small fire just outside. The flames cast dancing shadows on the concrete floor and illuminate their massive forms.

The team has settled into the old tires set out as chairs. All except Mensa, who often stands.

Brandon is eating his wall rat, which, thankfully, he cooked over the fire. It looks delicious actually, compared to my tofu-and-almond wrap from Bodhi Tree.

“So…Brandon,” I say, testing the waters. “Would it be okay if I ask you some questions about…your transformation?”

Zara arches an eyebrow at me. Maybe I’ve crossed a line of etiquette, but this is something I’m really worried about.

He looks up, those yellow eyes reflecting the firelight, and I see he understands. “Sure, Jade. What do you want to know?”

“Well,” I say, unsure of where to start. “Everything—I mean, whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

Brandon uses one of his claws to pick a chunk of rat out of his sharp teeth. “Well, the change started about two years after my first dose of radout. Little things at first—sharper teeth, thicker skin.” He runs a clawed hand over his bark-like arm. “Then I started eating everything in sight. I used to be five-seven, now look at me. Got this big in only eight months.”

I nervously tug at one of my sprouting whiskers. “Wow, that’s heavy. How did it affect your work, your relationships?”

Brandon’s laugh is like rocks in a blender. “I was the librarian at Venice, if you can believe it. Spent my days with books. My wife was on the salvage team. We have a daughter, who was about eleven at the time. They fired me from the library when I yelled at some asshole with an overdue book. That same day, my wife didn’t come home. She was killed on a salvage run.”

I shake my head. “Man, Brandon, that’s really terrible.”

I want to ask about his daughter but can’t bring myself to do it.

But Brandon sees the question in my face.

“When my anger really started getting out of control,” he continues, “they took my daughter away. Her name is Cherry. She wants to run the library one day. She’s thirteen now.”

My throat tightens. “I’m so sorry, Brandon. That’s…that’s not fair.”

He shrugs those massive shoulders again. “Life’s not fair. But sometimes it gives you an unexpected kindness.” He sets down his dinner and reaches into his pack. “Like meeting someone who asks your name.”

The book he pulls out is worn but intact, its cover showing an illustrated lion. The title reads: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

“Found this on patrol a few months back,” he explains. “Thought Cherry might dig it.” He holds the book out to me. “Would you…if you’re ever in Venice…would you give it to her? Tell her it’s from Daddy?”

The book feels heavy in my hands, as if weighted by his loss. “Of course, Brandon,” I choke out. “I promise I’ll get this done.”

He nods his thanks, then stares into the fire, becoming lost in his memories.

☢

It’s overcast and sprinkling rain by the time we park the bikes outside the Hollydale Insane Asylum. The massive concrete building looks like a prison, but it’s the lettering on the wall that throws me. It’s not actually called the Hollydale Insane Asylum. It’s labeled: “Rancho Los Amigos National Rehabilitation Center.”

How did I not know that?

A rehab center doesn’t sound nearly as scary as a madhouse.

“This is intake,” Brandon explains, gesturing toward the fortified iron gate in front of the building. “But the whole facility spreads across over a hundred buildings.”

A hundred buildings? Man, this place is huge. This has me wondering exactly how many mutants there are in the Southland. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Ash pulls me aside, his hand squeezing my arm. “Two hours,” he says, voice tight with concern. “If you’re not back in two hours, I’m coming in after you.“

Impulsively, I kiss him. I know it’s not professional to do this in front of the team. But I feel like I’m going off to war.

Zara and Mensa give me a goodbye hug.

Flint gives me a pack of M&M’s to trade for favors, and warns me not to drop the soap. His grim humor brings a smile to my face.

Brandon and his silent partner lead me through the gate, guarded by smaller mutants in scrap metal armor, carrying assault rifles.

They glare at me as I pass, but none of them challenge my escort. I get the feeling they were expecting me. The mutants must have radio communication.

The intake building smells of shit and urine. Dusty chairs line the halls, and old magazines litter the floor. I see a torn copy of Time magazine. The cover says: “Nixon’s Shattered Presidency.”

As we approach the back door, Brandon stops. “Before we leave intake,” he says, “you need to decide something.”

“That sounds a little ominous,” I reply.

Brandon nods. “Yeah, it’s important,” he says, lowering his rumbling voice. “Hollydale has two factions, each with their own territory on campus. And the problem is, the factions hate each other.”

I grimace, because this sounds like politics. “What do you mean, factions?”

“The Beauties want to cure mutations, return to being human. The Beasts…” his yellow eyes gleam, “they think mutations make them superior. It’s best for you to choose just one side to visit. Because, let’s say you choose to visit the Beasts. The Beauties will know about it, and if you try to go there afterward, they’ll rough you up, maybe kill you. It’s like you gotta choose a side coming in. Beauties or Beasts.”

I’m really not liking the sound of this. “What about Dr. Goldman? Which side is she on?”

Brandon shrugs. “Don’t know her. If you had to guess, which side would she have joined?”

I close my eyes, thinking. Goldman’s video suggested she wanted to help mutants. And she’s a doctor, so that probably means trying to cure those patients.

“Take me to the Beauties,” I say, unsure of myself.

Might be my imagination, but I think Brandon looks a little disappointed as he nods.

He leads the way through the back door, with Jeb following me.

The door creaks open to reveal more buildings scattered across overgrown grounds. Vines strangle the structures, and weeds burst through cracked sidewalks. The whole place feels abandoned, like nature has reclaimed it. I guess the mutants aren’t into landscaping.

Then I hear it.

A muffled, mad howl, like a werewolf in a dungeon.

And I start to think I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.