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dressed in those light gauzy clothes, others not—and he’d stood frozen by the entryway, like a sweaty-palmed zombie. In fact, he stood there so long, he’d started to imagine the aging, blond bodyguard-looking guy who was staring at him from across the room was plotting to drag him out back and put him out of his misery. The guy could’ve definitely been one of the guards Dale had mentioned, only Arman had no clue how to tell if someone was armed. He had no clue about anything, a fact made blatantly obvious when Mari had come up to him, taken his arm, and guided him to her table. There, she’d poured him a glass of red wine and shushed him when he said he wasn’t old enough to drink.
    â€œYou know, you’re not supposed to ask him that,” the woman next to Mari scolded. She was younger than Mari, but still old. Maybe the same age as Arman’s mom. Forty something? He couldn’t tell. She had long black hair and brown skin and an accent he couldn’t place.
    Arman closed his fist around his pills. “Why aren’t you supposed to ask me where I come from?”
    â€œDrink your wine,” Mari instructed. “You’re too tense.”
    Obedient as always, Arman picked up the glass and drank his wine. It tasted funny. Not sweet like how it smelled, but acidy and thick. Almost gritty. He drank more, gulped it really, wondering if he would get drunk from one glass. Being drunk wasn’t something he had a lot ofexperience with, although that wasn’t innocence born from any moral compass, but rather a lack of opportunity.
    A short man on Arman’s left leaned in. “You’re new here, right? Just came in today?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell see, then that’s why you don’t know.”
    â€œKnow what?”
    â€œThat we’re not supposed to talk about our lives from before. Not at first. This is a place for rebirth. For rejuvenation. We make our own stories here. They don’t make us.”
    â€œOh,” Arman said.
    â€œQuarantine’s not until tonight,” Mari called from across the table. “He’s still whoever he is until then. There’s nothing wrong with asking.”
    The man shrugged, and Arman wanted to be the one to ask more questions, like what happened at Quarantine and who would make his story and how could he possibly be anyone but who he already was? But the food came then, hot and steamy and aromatic, and the time for asking disappeared into the vapor.
    A table to their left got up to serve, six figures slipping into the kitchen through an open doorway and returning with various dishes. Arman got to his feet to help, too, in part because he wanted to go into the kitchen and see if things were how he remembered them, but Mari gave a shake of her head, her lips forming a frown, and he quickly sat again.
    Heaping bowls of wild rice and hot platters of roast chicken with buttery potatoes appeared on the table, along with warm rolls wrapped in towels and savory oven-roasted vegetables and green salad and peach chutney. A feast, practically. Arman’s eyes grew wider and wider. He’d never seen a meal this big, except maybe that dinner he’d had the year he’d spent a disastrous Thanksgiving with his father’s family up in Marin.
    The last thing to be served, a bowl of sweet corn sprinkled with mint, was set directly in front of Arman. At this he glanced up to see the cook standing there, right beside him, very close. Still in her yellow dress.
    Still with her bare legs and soft hair pulled off her neck.
    She nodded, giving Arman a quick tip of her head before moving her gaze downward, toward his hand. The one holding the pills. He shoved it under the table.
    â€œHey,” he said.
    The cook didn’t answer. Instead she brushed against him, like a cat to a corner or an uncrossed knee, and whether that was by accident or design, he didn’t know. After that, she simply floated away,