A quiver raced across my shoulders since zero hair reinforced my decision to chase after Ellison. But also because without my normal blanket of warmth, the air pricked a chill from my scalp to my toes. No wonder Pop wore a stocking cap all the time.

Moon opened the folding door, and stabs of early morning sunlight burned red behind my eyelids.

"Have a nice day," the robotic voice said.

"Fuck you." A butchering was not my idea of a nice day.

I stood and ...