The looking glass now contained a love letter to a boy in Waltham, a maudlin faun pining while he held his pipes, and a thousand other faces and images. Whatever had infected her and Cora had spread and crept over Brook Farm like vines on an old stone.

The boss has with his back to you. He grips a machine shaped like a hexagonal ship’s wheel. You saw an image of it recently in a trade magazine in his office: a newly-invented window cleaning drone. Unlike he said days ago, he isn’t firing you because he found cheaper labor, but because he has decided that a robot is better than you.

I’d been dreaming of something red that morning. Fire. Explosions, plumes of thick smoke. And for a moment, I saw again a line of trees catching light, blazing up into torches. A wall of roaring flame along the highway. I was in the car with my family; we were trying to escape, Dad driving as fast as the traffic allowed; and I whimpered and squeezed my eyes shut but even so I could feel the Angels watching through the flame.