"Hospital." I don't want her to see what Mick did to Cass's legs. I don't want to be responsible tonight.

The ambulance arrives within five minutes, a boxy white vehicle with stylized red crescents on it. Two polite zombies in blue uniforms come up to the front door. "This way," I say, leading them upstairs. For once I'm glad there are zombies everywhere—they won't ask the kind of awkward questions someone with cognitive autonomy might raise. Sam is up there with Cass, and a minute later the zombies pile back downstairs to fetch a folding wheeled platform for her.

"Who is next of kin?" asks one of the zombies as they come down the stairs with Cass lying on the stretcher.

Fer begins to point toward Mick, and Tammy bats his hand away. "I am!" she says. "Take me with you."

"Request approved," says one of the zombies. "Ride up front, please." They wheel Cass out toward the back of the vehicle, and Tammy follows them.

Greg watches her for a moment, then turns to look back at Mick. "What are we going to do with him?" he asks.

There's a hard expression on Fer's face. "Nothing," I say quickly, before Fer can open his mouth and stick his foot in it. "Remember what we agreed? No lynching." I pause. "What we do tomorrow is another matter."

"Will the police do anything?" Fer asks after a moment.

"I don't think so," says Sam, coming downstairs. He's holding a damp towel to his eye. "I really don't think they're programmed for this sort of thing. If we're unlucky, they'll come after us for trampling on the flower bed and breaking down the door, but I don't think you can really expect a zombie to cope with this sort of . . . thing." He looks very sober as he stares at Mick's prostrate form.

"Let's go home," I suggest. "How about we meet up tomorrow evening to talk about it?"

"That works for me," says Greg. Sam nods.

I eye Mick's prostrate form. "If he tries to come after any of us, I think we should kill him."

"You sound as if you're not certain." That's Fer.

"Certain?" I stare at him: "Shit, I've got half a mind to cut his throat right here! Except, Sunday"—I swallow—"has kind of put me off." I stare at him some more. "You kicked the shit out of him. Think he'll come back for more?"

Greg shakes his head. "I hope he tries something," he says, a curious half smile on his lips. I shiver. Just for a moment he reminds me of Jen.

"Come on, let's go." I take Sam's free hand. "Fer, would you call two taxis?

It's close to one in the morning when Sam and I get home, filthy and tired and bruised. "Go on in," I say, pausing in the conservatory. "This shirt's going in the trash." Sam nods wordlessly and goes indoors, leaving me to strip off under the cool moonlight. I feel numb and tired, but also satisfied with the night's work. I correct that—mostly satisfied. I unzip my trousers in case any of the crap on the bed rubbed off on them, then I follow him inside.

Sam's standing in the living room doorway, holding a bottle of vodka and two tumblers. He hasn't turned the lights on, but he's shed his shirt, and the moonlight shining through the tall glass windows outlines his bare shoulders in silver. "I do not want to dream tonight," he says, holding the bottle out to me.

"Me neither." I take one of the glasses, then brush past him into the living room. I'm tired, I realize, but I'm also wired with excitement and tension and apprehension about tomorrow, and a burning hot anger for Cass—Why didn't I go round to see her before? —and a fresh hatred for Fiore and Yourdon, and the faceless scum who created this nightmare and expect us to live in it. "What are you waiting for?" I drop onto the sofa and hold my glass out. Sam tips colorless spirit into it. "C'mon."

He sits down next to me and fills his own glass, then caps the bottle. "I should have listened to you earlier," he says, taking a mouthful.

"So?" I raise my glass. "I hope the hospital can help. She was—"

There's a long moment of silence. It's probably only a couple of seconds, but it feels like hours.

"I didn't know."

"None of us did." But these sound like feeble excuses to me right now, so I take another mouthful of vodka in order to have something else to occupy my mouth with.

"R-Reeve. There's something else I want you to know." I look at him sharply. He's looking right back at me, and I'm suddenly conscious that I'm nearly naked. And he's not wearing that much either, now I allow myself to notice it.

"Go ahead," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"I'm. Oh." He looks away, looking pained. Inexpressive. "Yesterday I said some things I didn't really mean. Hurtful things, some of them. I want to apologize."

"No apology needed," I say, my heart beating painfully fast.

"Oh, but there is. You see, I didn't mean everything I said. But when I said * * * I was telling the—"

"Stop right there." I raise a hand. "Those words. You, uh, oh shit. " My head's spinning. It's late at night, I've been through a lot, I've been drinking vodka, and Sam's saying words to me that my ears refuse to listen to. "I didn't hear you just now, and I know for sure you said the same thing before, and I didn't hear the words." He looks puzzled, even offended. "I mean, I heard you speak, but I couldn't understand them." I'm beginning to worry. "You used the same phrase, didn't you? Exactly the same words? Could there be something wrong with my—" He stands up and strides over to the sideboard to retrieve his tablet, which has been lying there gathering dust for some time. "What?"

He says something to it, then holds it up in front of me. Dim letters glow on the screen:

I LOVE YOU

"You what ?" I say, "You're trying to say * * *—" And I know I'm saying the words, but I can't hear them. "Shit." I shake my head. "It's me. Sam, I'm so sorry." I stand up and hug him. "* * *, too. It's just, there's something really flaky up with my language module. Is that what you've been trying to tell me?" I lean back far enough to see his face. "Is it?"

"Yes," he admits. His face is a picture of worry. "I don't say that easily. And I can't hear it either, Reeve, I thought I was going nuts."

"I guess not." I'm close enough to feel his crotch. "And I guess you only say that to people you're serious about." He nods. "And maybe you're close enough that I can tell you that I'm flattered, and very happy, and, and—" I pause. I feel as if I ought to know what this weird inability to understand those three happy words means, but I can't quite recall it. "We've got to get out of here."

He nods. "I really don't like this," he says, miserably, a wave of his hand encompassing everything from his body outward. "I've—they should have spotted it. I don't feel right when I'm big and slow and fixed. I mean, they can patch it temporarily but I don't like that, either, it's easier just not to be. Only they didn't even give me a, a—" He's breathing too fast.

I feel a stab of anger, not at Sam but at Fiore and the other idiots. "You've got a big-body dysphoria, haven't you?" He nods. "Figures." Kay spent a whole lifetime as an alien, didn't she? And kept changing bodies, as if she couldn't quite settle on a form that she felt comfortable in. Doubtless it's fixable with therapy, but fixing people's problems isn't exactly what this polity is about. "Sam." I kiss him on the cheek. "We've got to get out of here. Where's your tablet?"

"Over there."

"I need to show you something." I let go of him and fetch it, intending to point out to him the myriad ways in which the polity constitution turns us into victims of a biologically deterministic tyranny. "Here—" I page through it quickly. "Hey, I didn't see this before!"

"What?" He looks over my shoulder.