Emma checked the bolt on the lock. The showerhead in the bathroom was loose, which had increased her anxiety about the door. In her panic, she’d called Marcus and then finally written to Miles with the name of her hotel in case she disappeared.

The lock on her door felt solid enough, however, and besides the faulty showerhead, the room was fine. The carpet had no stains and there was a welcoming wooden desk in the corner. Wide and sturdy, it was the sort of place where a person might sit and get her thoughts to stop spewing like hot rocks out of a volcano. Emma pulled out the chair and sat down. At first, all she could do was stare at the wall and feel futile, but that was something. Wasn’t the despair of feeling useless central to the modern human condition? Wasn’t that what Don Quijote was all about?

To shore up what sense of self-regard she had left, she opened her notebook. Perhaps it was time for her alter-haze to speak on the stand.