“I’m surprised she talked to you enough to tell you that,” Joe said.

It was true that Madonna was not much of a talker. None of the Midnighters felt they knew her. And no matter how friendly her husband Teacher was, he never seemed to tell them anything of importance about his life or his past. These reasons were good enough to keep the Reeds out of town meetings.

“I’ll go down to Gas N Go soon. It’s always nice to have a new community member,” Fiji said brightly, as they all stood up to leave.

Joe and Chuy laughed.

Before Fiji could ask them to explain what was so amusing about the newcomer, a customer came in.

They all turned at the ringing of the bell over the door.

The customer was haggard, and very young, and he was towing a girl by the hand. She was in her teens, but she hadn’t gotten there easily. From the way her eyes ping-ponged around, she’d enhanced her world chemically.

“Here!” the boy said to Lemuel, shoving the girl toward him. “I want to pawn her!”

They all froze, waiting to hear what Lemuel would say.

“I don’t take live people or live animals,” the vampire said mildly. “And lest you should think that means I want her dead, you best think again.”

“Then I’ll pawn my soul!” The boy laughed again, defiant and dramatic, obviously feeling he was making a grand gesture.

“Never say that.” Chuy made his way through the chairs to where the boy stood. “You only have one. You can’t imagine the price of it, or the cost of losing it. What is it you need money for?”

Under Chuy’s serious eyes, the boy wilted a little. “I owe someone a lot of money, and I was going to sell some Ecstasy, but she took it all,” he said, giving the girl a petulant slap on the butt.

“You mean she ingested it all?” Manfred said, alarmed. “Doesn’t she need to go to a hospital?”

This had obviously not occurred to the boy, who gave a violent sort of shrug, as if to throw off this petty concern when his own problems were so much vaster. “So anybody want her for anything?” he demanded. “She won’t mind. She won’t even remember.”

Manfred’s fists clenched and he took a step forward. Fiji had the same reaction. Somewhat to Fiji’s surprise, Chuy was faster than either of them. He’d been pulling out his keys, but now his hand went instead to the boy’s face. He put his thumb in the middle of the boy’s forehead and spoke a word, though Fiji could not remember afterward what the word was. Immediately, the tension drained out of the boy’s body, and he let go of the hand of the addled girl, who sagged into a chair the minute she was free.

Chuy removed his thumb.

The boy said, “I’m sorry.” His gaze was almost as blank as the girl’s, but his stance was relaxed and receptive. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should be getting home. To figure out my problems. I shouldn’t involve anyone else. Selling other people is bad.”

“Yes,” said Chuy sadly. “It is, boy. You are a bad one, but a young bad one. You may be able to change.”

“I’m going to try,” the boy said. Without another word, he left the pawnshop, and they heard his car start up and drive away.

Fiji said, “What do we do with her?”

Joe crouched by the girl’s chair and took her limp hand. “Her parents are Margaret and Louis Hatter. They live in Davy,” he said with assurance, and no one asked how he knew.

Manfred looked the address up on his phone, which he then laid down on the counter and forgot. “I’ll run her home,” he said. “Feej, you want to come with me, in case they think I took advantage of the little idiot?”

“Okay,” she said, casting a glance at Bobo, who was looking at her (again!) with an expression she couldn’t read. He appeared to be lost in some unpleasant place, and as she watched he went out the side door leading to a landing. He was mounting the stairs to his apartment in the last glimpse Fiji had before the door swung shut.

Fiji sighed heavily, not even aware she did so, and she turned back to help Manfred. Between them, they supported the Hatter girl across the pawnshop driveway to Manfred’s. With some difficulty, Fiji taking her head and Manfred her feet, they maneuvered her into the back seat of Manfred’s car. During the short drive to Davy, the girl’s eyes were open. She seemed to be admiring the texture of the roof.

The search for the Hatters’ house took longer than Fiji had anticipated, since street signs were not abundant in Davy and Manfred had run out without his phone. Finally, Manfred parked in front of a small ranch-style home on a modest street.

Manfred tugged the girl’s hands until he got her out of the back seat. Then Fiji looped one of the girl’s arms around her neck, and Manfred did the same with the other one. With the girl propped between them like a barely ambulatory sack of laundry, they lurched across the small lawn to the front door and rang the bell. A fortyish woman opened it. When she saw the girl her shoulders sagged with relief. Or maybe it was resignation.

“Oh, Marilyn,” she said sadly. “Again.”

“You’re Margaret Hatter?” Fiji asked. “Her mom?”

“Yes.” Margaret Hatter didn’t sound happy about it. “Here, I’ll take her.” She didn’t ask Fiji any questions or level any accusations during the awkward process of transferring the limp young woman from two people to one.

Fiji said, “We found her like this.” She wanted to make it absolutely clear she and Manfred had had nothing to do with Marilyn’s condition.

“All right,” said the woman, as if Fiji had asked her to believe something quite impossible. “Sure, honey.”

Stung, Fiji opened her mouth to protest this implied judgment. “I hope she gets better,” Manfred said rather loudly, and yanked Fiji away from the door.

It was closing, anyway.

On the drive back to Midnight they were mostly silent. When he dropped her off at her house, Fiji said, “I just didn’t want her to think . . .” The conversation had been gnawing at her.

“Give it up, Feej,” Manfred said. “Mrs. Hatter didn’t ask a single question. She was going to think the worst if we’d had wings and white robes and a heavenly choir.”

“I can’t really blame her,” Fiji said.

Manfred sighed. “Neither can I,” he said.