I hugged myself as a blast of air breezed through my damp clothes. The sound of my shoes scuffling against the nubby carpeting mingled with the noise of the other evening strollers. Strains of a rock tune wafted out of a pool bar. The green neon hanging in the window proclaimed that the tavern proudly served imported stout. Slowing my pace, I contemplated going in to sample the bitter, dark brew for Daniel's sake. He had loved the stuff, and often dragged me to similar smoky, raucous places for a "nip," as he called it.

A fond smile playing on my lips, I approached the door. Through the glass, I could see Celtic warriors posturing around the pool tables, holding their cue sticks like ancient spears. Daniel's broad-featured face and crinkle-eyed smile greeted me in every glance.

With my fingers still wrapped around the door handle, I froze. Suddenly, I remembered how rage had splotched Daniel's cheeks with purple. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the scene from replaying in my mind.

"You going in, then?" A lilting voice broke me out of my reverie. "Or are you just going to stand there gawking?"

"Uh." I looked up at the curious frown and backed away from the door. "No. No, I'm sorry. I can't."

"Suit yourself," I heard him murmur as I moved off.

Heat rose on my cheeks. I hurried my steps. Trying to calm my jagged nerves, I took a deep breath. I crossed another skyway toward the shopping district. A woman walked by with an arm entwined around her lover. They leaned into each other, laughing. Her mauve scarf matched her shoes exactly. Her lightly colored hair was coiled in a style I had attempted but could never maintain with such perfection. I imagined myself in her place: 1..3 kids and a condo in midtown. Despite my fierce independence, some days I would kill for a warm, strong arm to hold.

I paused to examine this week's haute couture as advertised by the mannequins in Bloomingdale's window. The holograms moved in an alluring yet businesslike way, skillfully showing off the cut with a swirl of the skirts. The images behind the mannequins flashed scenes of somebody else's affluent life. Without the LINK, it was like watching a silent movie: picture, but no sound.

Pressing my fingers to the glass, I tried to feel the pulse of information emanating from the display. I touched my cheek against the cool, smooth surface. If I shut my eyes, I could almost sense the barrage of advertising slogans and insistent sales pitches like the distant thrum of a bass cord.

"Infoslut." A familiar rasping voice shocked me out of my reverie.

I pulled myself away from the shop window and blinked. "Oh, it's you." In front of me in a ragged, wet coat, stood the Revelation preacher. It was strange to see him out of context and at such close range. I almost checked my watch out of habit. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

The pungent odor that hung around him was intensified by the steamy wetness of his clothes. His eyes were distant, but a shaky hand pointed unfailingly to my heart. "Sin," he declared, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "Sin flowers in you like a tainted rose."

I turned away. He was talking Jesus-nonsense again. I don't know what I'd expected. Perhaps I'd hoped that off duty he was a coherent, normal man.

"Cast out of heaven, driven from Sodom, thrust down from the tower of Babel ..."

I stopped paying attention and walked back toward the office. Experience taught me it was best not to encourage him. Ignoring him, however, I discovered, was easier when separated by walls. The preacher trudged behind me like a faithful dog, his voice falling into the rhythm of our steps.

"Jezebel, Jezebel, Satan tempts you again, and again you fall. You would sell your soul for access to the LINK."

I spun on my heels and caught the collar of his coat. Shoving hard, I yanked him around until he fell against the bulletproof glass of the skyway window. We hit the surface with a muffled thrum. He was smaller than I was, so I pressed my full weight against his slender frame. "What? What did you just say?"

"Sin tempts you, but you should resist. The flesh is weak. Sin is always the path of least resistance. Fight him, fight him."

"Who sent you here?" I demanded.

His eyes rolled up into his head. "Thus is the word of our Lord. Thanks be to God."

"Amen," I said, continuing the service. I let go of his collar. The preacher's knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. The excitement taxed his already overworked neurons, and his head lolled against the glass.

A small crowd had gathered. Twice in one day I found myself fleeing the scene of, if not a crime, then, at least serious assault charges. Maybe it was the fear behind my eyes, but no one made a move to stop me.