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scratch.”
    Unlike her followers, Sahara restricted her self-harm to one behavior—scratching her chest, digging so deep that the skin over her sternum was scarred. Trying to get to the chantment embedded there, the psychiatrists thought, the bottle cap that kept her from running away.
    “It’s fine, it’s scabbed over.”
    “I’m not asking permission,” Juanita said, hiding another surge of murderous rage.
    “Oh, I forgot. It’s national Humiliate the Goddess Day, isn’t it?”
    “You’re no goddess.” Juanita took out the first aid kit, preparing a pad of gauze. She slipped a postage stamp and a scribbled scrap of paper inside the dressing, taping the gauze over Sahara’s chest. Then she handed over her jumper, cuffed her, and inventoried the bathroom supplies, checking each item off a printed list.
    Shrapnel churned in her stomach.
    Sahara’s eyes had dilated and her breathing was shallow.
    Juanita fumbled her radio. “Moving Prisoner One from S and S to Isolation.”
    The Alchemites had gotten to her three days ago.
    She had been coming off shift when one of the cooks, a wispy blonde named Heaven, had pushed her way into her bedroom. “Your brother’s name is Ramón, right?”
    “So?”
    “Ramón Alfonse Corazón,” Heaven repeated. From the folds of her skirt she produced a digital camera, holding it screen side out. It lit up with a shot of Juanita’s baby brother in uniform, patrolling the scorched frontier of the contaminated forest in Oregon.
    Heaven pressed a button, and the video file began to play. A civilian in a long dress and head scarf passed Ramón, turning his head. She spoke; they laughed together. Juanita saw a scrawl of henna or a tattoo on her skin as she caressed his cheek. Something sparkled in her hand.
    The woman walked away and Ramón stood bemused, staring after her. Behind him, another U.S. soldier sagged, as if drunk, then sat down in the street.
    Then it was Ramón himself falling over, lying in a spray of glittering light. The camera zoomed in—his eyes were fluttering as he fought to keep them open.
    A snore, a twinkle, and the soldiers were gone.
    The video ended.
    “That’s…,” Juanita had managed. “It isn’t real.”
    “Relax, he’ll live.” Heaven turned the camera, fiddling, and handed it over. The screen showed Juanita’s niece, crossing the street in front of Our Lady of Sorrows School. The tattooed woman was in the frame.
    A beep. The image changed—Mamá at the grocery.
    Kill Heaven now, part of Juanita thought. Kill her, take the camera, call Security.
    “What do you want?”
    Heaven held out the postage stamp and the coded note. “Give this to the Goddess, that’s all.”
    Coldly, like a dead person, Juanita picked it off her palm. And now she had done it, betrayed the judge, betrayed everyone. Passed over a chantment.
    “Smells like antiseptic,” Sahara said suddenly, with what could only be called a loving smile. Did she think Juanita was one of her followers?
    At least it was over. She locked the prisoner in her cell and bolted, heading for the mess, where the aroma of frying beef and garlic made her stomach flip. To steady herself, she scanned the room. The jury was tucked in a glassed-in, soundproofed dining room that kept them from overhearing trial-related scuttlebutt.
    Okay, cope. Unknot the shoulders, walk to the chow line. But relaxing was easier said than done, especially when Heaven slipped into line behind her with a chirpy, “Hi!”
    I could still kill her, Juanita thought. She settled for thwarting Heaven’s attempt at a hug—a hug!—by putting her tray between them.
    “How was your day?”
    “Did everything I needed to do.” Of course. The betrayal wouldn’t be a one-time thing. Heaven would cling like a tick, demanding more, waving the threat to Juanita’s family.…
    Fight her, she thought. “Sahara asked me for a steak.”
    Heaven blinked. “The prisoners are vegans.”
    “Prisoner One may talk the eco-talk,”