Harris stared stupidly at what the man had given him. It was a big coin, maybe two and a half inches in diameter, and heavy. On the face was the profile of a handsome, lean man with a prominent nose and a crown; on the back, a three-masted sailing ship. It looked like real silver.

“That’s a full lib, son,” the barefoot man continued. He unlatched and lowered the truck’s tailgate. “That’ll get you fixed up. When you’re on your feet again, you can pay it back to Banwite’s Talk-Boxes and Electrical Eccentricities. That’s me, Brian Banwite.” He scrambled up into the bed of the truck.

“Brian Banwite,” Harris repeated dully. “Thanks.” He slid the coin into his pants pocket and moved to the sidewalk, then turned back to the truck.

Banwite climbed back out of the bed, a large wooden crate over his shoulder. On its side were stenciled the words “Model 20, Double, Black.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, son.”

“Where am I?”

“Cranshire.” Brian pointed past Harris. “A few blocks that way you get to Binshire.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing the other way. “North is Drakshire. That’s my neighborhood, Drakshire.” Then he pointed to Harris’ right. “River’s that way.”

“No, I mean . . . what city?”

Banwite laughed. “You aren’t just fresh off the boat, you stowed away on it. This is Neckerdam, son. You’ve reached the big city.” He turned away and marched up the walk to the nearest house.

Harris wanted to say, No, what I want to know is, where’s Gaby? But Brian Banwite wouldn’t know. For lack of anything better to do, he slowly turned toward Binshire and moved that way.

The breeze was cool. The concrete was solid under his feet. Harris passed stoops leading up to building doorways a few feet above street level and could grip them, feel the reality of them. Feel the insistent burn of the slashes on his leg. Nothing that had happened since he woke up in Central Park made any sense, but it had ­happened.

And yet, in the half-dozen lit windows he peered up into, there were furnishings that looked like the ones they’d cleaned out of his late grandfather’s house. Wooden chairs with carved, curved legs. Stiff, upright sofas. There was something that looked like a TV set, but with a round screen; it was not turned on. Most of these furnishings were new, in good shape.

And the people . . . One man in three wore a tie in the comfort of his own home. The women were in knee-length dresses, dated of style but bright of color. A happy young couple listened to a radio, which blared something that sounded like Irish dance music.

There were no old people. Well, no old people who looked really old. White hair framing young faces.

Then he caught sight of the woman working over her stove. The woman with pointed ears.

They weren’t like those of Mr. Spock on TV, not rising to a devilish point at the rear. They were normal ­except for the slight, subtle point right in the middle of the curve at the top. Harris looked for pointed ears in the next dozen people whose windows he passed and saw them on three; the rest had ears he considered ­normal.

Dully, he shook his head. He didn’t understand what was happening. It confused him. It had hurt him.

Therefore it was the enemy.

It wasn’t enough that the whole world was his enemy. Now, it was a world he didn’t even recognize.

When you didn’t know what an opponent could do, you stood back, ducked and feinted, watched him work until you understood what you were up against.

That’s what Harris would do. Then he would fight back.

His shoelaces flopped around as he walked; his shoes had come untied. Noticing that, he suddenly felt sad, but couldn’t explain why.

Harris looked out over what should have been the Brooklyn Bridge.

It stretched across a broad waterway that, lined with lights on both shores, seemed to follow the contours of the East River. But where both of the Brooklyn Bridge’s stone support towers had two soaring arches, this bridge’s towers had only one apiece . . . and yellow lights shone from windows at the top of each tower, as though the bridge’s heights were occupied. Where the Brooklyn Bridge had its elevated pedestrian walkway along the center, between the outbound and inbound roadways, this bridge had two wooden walkways at road level along the sides, overlooking the water. And this bridge seemed darker and heavier than the one he was used to, its support pillars more massive.

It was the right river and the right place . . . but the wrong bridge. Harris limped along its walkway to see more.

The brisk north wind tugged at his clothes and chilled him. His leg ached worse than ever and his hands trembled from exhaustion when he didn’t keep them jammed into his pockets. Maybe he should have done what Brian Banwite said—find a doctor, get it bandaged up. But with everything so wrong, he knew deep down that all the doctors had to be wrong, too. Instead, he kept moving. The strangeness of this place wouldn’t get him if he kept moving.

An endless stream of antiquated cars roared by, always going the wrong direction on the road. Once there was a motorcycle with a sidecar attached, its helmetless driver not even glancing at Harris through his thick aviator-style goggles.

Harris caught sight of lights moving up in the sky; they floated over the skyline in far too slow, steady and stately a fashion to be an airplane or even a helicopter. He watched, puzzled, until portions of the aircraft were caught in a spotlight shining up from the city, and Harris recognized it as a zeppelin, drifting as serenely as a cloud.

He passed the first of the bridge’s two support towers and walked underneath its enormous arch. Far overhead, small spotlights were carefully situated to illuminate the stone gargoyles leering down at him. He numbly shook his head and kept going.

Off to his left, there was no Manhattan Bridge to be seen. To his right, he could see the contours of Governor’s Island—better, in fact, than he should have been able to see them at night. The whole island was brilliantly lit, and Harris could only stare at the island’s giant wooden roller coaster and Ferris wheel, which had never been there before. Both were in motion, as were other amusement-park rides too distant to make out in detail. ­Beyond should be the glinting golden point of the Statue of Liberty’s torch, but there was no such beacon.

As he reached the center of the bridge, exhaustion ­finally caught up with him. He sagged against the rail, shutting his eyes against the parade of lights lining the river, and tried to keep his legs from shaking.

And still the cars roared by, each one carrying someone who wasn’t hurt, wasn’t confused, wasn’t totally out of place. Harris felt resentment stir in him. They’d probably enjoy seeing him slip and fall, like the crowd earlier tonight.

He concentrated on taking long, deep breaths; he tried to slip into a calmer, meditative state, the kind he once enjoyed while performing the exercise forms of tae kwon do.

A faint squeal of brakes—Harris heard one of the outbound cars slow to stop just behind him. A cop, had to be a cop; but when he sneaked a glance over his shoulder, it was nothing he could recognize as a police car. It was a beautiful, massive two-tone thing gleaming black and gold in the bridge lights; its passenger compartment was a four-door box, the engine compartment a lower rectangle just as long, its front grille capped by a hood ornament shaped like a dragon in flight.

The far door opened and the driver emerged. Tall for one of these Neckerdam people, he was Harris’ height, though he had to weigh forty or fifty pounds less; he was thin-boned and lean-muscled. He was paler in the overhead lights than Harris; this contrasted starkly with his trim, black mustache and beard. His eyes were bright and alert, his features so mobile and full of sympathy that Harris decided he looked like a stand-up comedian who did psychotherapy on the side.