– But you got to get it right. Too much, you will freak fucking out. Wait too long, ’til the Vyrus peters out: sick as shit or worse. Could be someone out there has developed a preservative, a medium that keeps the Vyrus together for a limited amount of time. How they got the idea to stick it in their arm is beyond me, but I’m sure glad they did.

– Where do you get it?

– A guy.

– What guy?

PJs is slowly coming out of it, stretching, rubbing her face, touching her skin. The Count goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of water. He holds her head up as she takes a tiny sip. It’s been no more than a half hour since she went down.

– What guy?

He presses his fingers to PJs lips and she kisses them. He chucks her under the chin and goes back to the couch.

– Look, bro, we got a good thing going here. This.

He holds up the syringe.

– This is so good. You have no idea. And our hookup is solid. But he’s a hookup. That means all I have is a pager number. He either calls me back or he doesn’t. And when he does call me back, if he’s holding, he just sends a delivery guy. Some guy who doesn’t even know what he’s carrying. The delivery guy, he’s a civilian, not infected, not even a Renfield. He just thinks he’s carrying dope. Different guy every time.

– How did you get the hookup?

He swabs his arm with an alcohol-drenched cotton ball.

– All this sterilization, not really necessary. Not like we can get infected, right? Just makes it better, part of the ritual.

– The hookup.

He picks up the tubing.

– From another fish. Look, can we talk about this later?

– Who was the fish gave you the hookup?

He slaps a vein.

– I heard you were at Doc’s last night.

– So?

– I hear a kid freaked out. A fish.

– Yeah.

– You see that?

– Yeah.

– He probably hit too much. Or waited too long and the Vyrus was dead.

– What of it?

– Well, that was the kid who got me the hookup.

He holds the tip of the needle at the vein.

– I don’t want to be a bad host or anything, but I’m gonna hit this shit now. You don’t have to go. Stick around. The girls come out of it, they’ll set you up. You can see what it’s all about.

I look at my watch. If I stay any longer I’ll be here all day. He’s pressing the tip of the needle to his vein. I reach over and grab his wrist.

– Any idea where the hookup is? Where it comes from?

He looks at my hand on his wrist, up at my eyes.

– Hey, man. I been a good host, right? You mind moving that?

I take my hand away.

He nods, smiles again.

– Thanks. All I hear, the only rumor I ever hear, is that it comes from Uptown.

I’m standing up, slipping on my jacket. I freeze.

– Uptown. The Coalition?

He shakes his head.

– No, no. Up. Town. Above One-ten. All the way up. The Hood, bro. And that’s what I know. Now, you can stay, go, whatever, but I’m gonna zone out here.

He puts the needle in, pushes the plunger, and unties the tubing. Before he can pull the needle free, he’s out.

PJs squirms over to him and removes the syringe from his arm. She leans her head against his thigh, looks at me and holds up the syringe.

– Do me again.

I walk out the door.

How you die, one of the easiest ways, one of the very easiest ways, you go off your reservation. Go outside the territory you know and you may as well be cutting your way through the Amazon. Sun comes up, you got no safe house. Run into the local Clan, and you will, they’ll chop you down, a Rogue on their turf. Go to ground, find some hole to hide in, get caught without blood and try to poach something, you won’t just be chopped, you’ll be put out in the sun. Do not go off the reservation. You’re a Rogue lucky enough to have an arrangement with a Clan, do not leave that turf.

Above One-ten. That’s way off the reservation. That’s Hood turf. Haven’t been up there since I was a kid. Since I was a kid from the Bronx. Since I was something you might consider human.

– Hey, Lydia.

– Pitt?

– Yeah.

Silence on the other end. Then.

– Where’d you get this number?

– You gave it to me.

– That was awhile back.

– Guess I’m lucky it still works.

– Yeah, you are.

I sit at my desk, spinning my Zippo around and around on my heavily doodled blotter.

– You still there, Pitt?

– Yeah.

I spin some more.

– You called me, Pitt.

– Yeah, I did.

Spinning.

– Just wanted to say hi, or something on your mind?

I stop spinning.

– You still have people in the straight world?

She grunts.

– Straight’s not really my thing.

– Not like sex-straight. Uninfected. I hear you still have a public face.

– Yeah. Heard that, did you?

I tap a Lucky on my thumbnail.

– You used to do gay rights and stuff.

– I used to fight against ignorance. I still do.

– Sure, sure. I know you got that covered in the Society, but out there, in the world, you still do that?

– Yeah. I still got a face. Me, some of the other members of the Lesbian, Gay and Other Gendered Alliance still have faces. We still work out there.

– AIDS?

– What?

– You work with AIDS people?

– AIDS people?

– People who are sick. HIV positive.

– I do some needle exchange. Talk to sex workers sometimes.

I balance the Lucky on top of the Zippo.

– Got a destination with this, Pitt?

I pick up the cigarette and light it.

– Say I had a friend who was sick.

– You got a friend?

– Use your imagination.

– OK.

– This friend is HIV-positive, medication isn’t working, could be trouble with her insurance company, that kind of stuff.

– OK.

– There other options? This person needed to get meds and whatever, there other options?

– Well, there are exchanges, mostly run online. People with meds they don’t use anymore, or they have understanding doctors who write them scrips for whatever, they swap meds. Try things the HMOs would never allow. But it’s all pretty catch as catch can, you know.

A flake of tobacco gets stuck to my tongue; I spit it on the floor.

– So you want a number? Some web addresses for your friend?

– Sure.

I find a pen. She rattles off numbers and letters. I draw a series of boxes on the blotter, one inside another.

– Anything else my friend could try?

– Depends.

– On what?

– Your friend got money?

– Why?

– There’s a black market for meds. You have the money, you can get anything. Experimental stuff that’s not even approved yet. Anything.

– No, no money.

– Hunh. You know…

– Yeah?

– You could ask the girl. For money.

The girl.

– No.

– She’d give it to you. The girl would give you anything you needed. You know she would.

– Not the girl.

– Sela says she asks about you all the time.

I look at the butt end of my smoke, watch as the cherry consumes the little LUCKY printed on the paper.

– Sela talks to her?

– All the time, she’s like her personal trainer now. The girl got her to move up there, wanted her close.

– That’s Coalition turf.

– I know. Sela renounced the Society.

– She renounced?

– Had to. She would have Rogued-it up there, but you know the Coalition: No dogs allowed. Pledged the Coalition.

– Jesus.

– She loves the girl. Only way she could stay close to her. Figured better to join the Coalition so she could keep an eye on her.

– Terry must have shit.

She laughs.

– Not half as much as Tom.

– Fuck him.

– You fuck him, Pitt. He’s not my type. Fucking fascist.

– Still not getting along?

– It’s not just me anymore. I hear you were around to see Terry.