“For Christ’s sake,” I said under my breath. “Get your ass over here.”

Dr. Gloria, however, refused to appear. I looked back, and Hootan was watching me. He made a shooing gesture.

The door was unlocked. I pushed inside and slammed the door shut behind me. If I couldn’t have calm, I thought, at least I could use anger.

The back room was dark and narrow, crowded with dimly seen supplies. A short hallway led to the front of the salon, where the lights were on. I stood for a long moment, listening, but I heard nothing but a faint mechanical sound. I walked forward.

The salon proper looked as garish and migraine-inducing as a Bollywood set: pink swivel chairs, lime green tile floors, neon orange trim. Every stylist station was done up like a Hollywood makeup table, with a big mirror surrounded by lights. Fayza sat in one of the swivel chairs, reading a magazine. Behind her, snipping at the back of Fayza’s head with a pair of narrow scissors, was a dark-haired girl who looked to be in her twenties. She wore a beaded emerald dress that looked like traditional Afghan costume, but on her feet were chunky black combat boots. Her glittery head scarf and bangle earrings looked more Gypsy than Muslim to me, but what did I know?

Fayza looked up from her magazine and saw me in the mirror. “Lyda, thank you for meeting me at such a late hour.”

I forced a smile that felt like a crack in my skull. “Odd time for a haircut.”

“You wouldn’t believe my schedule,” she said. She turned to face me, and the stylist stepped back. Fayza frowned at me. “I cannot decide if you die.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“You have such lovely red hair,” she continued. “It looks natural, but you know what tricks women can play.”

Oh. If you dye. I choked out a reply. “I used to get highlights. Not lately.”

She nodded. “When you get older you have to hide the gray with lowlights—a sad reversal. Look at Aaqila’s hair. So dark.”

The girl, Aaqila, didn’t answer. Her head was slightly bowed, and she looked at me through black bangs. She was tall, well over six feet in those boots, with pale skin, full lips, a pointed chin. She was beautiful, but her strong, narrow nose pushed her out of TV-pretty-land into more interesting territory.

“You have too much volume,” Fayza said to me. “You look like a wild woman. When was the last time you were in a decent salon?”

It had been years since I’d been in a decent salon. I hadn’t cut my hair at all since before entering the hospital. “Is it that bad?” I asked.

“Aaqila, do you have time for a walk-in?”

The girl shrugged as if to say, Why not? She gestured toward an alcove where two shampoo stations were set up.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m good.”

Aaqila took me by the elbow. When I didn’t move, the girl slid her hand down to my wrist and pressed; the pain was sharp, as if small bones were ready to snap, and I dropped to one knee. Good God she was strong. And she still held the scissors in her other hand.

“Please,” Fayza said to me. “You need this.”

I lowered myself into the shampoo chair. The back reclined so that my head hung over the sink. I was acutely aware of each step of this simple process: the tightness in my hips; the creak of the vinyl padding as my ass settled into the seat; the cold ceramic against my neck. I stared at the ceiling, my throat bared.

The girl did something behind me, then returned with hot towels. “To open the pores,” she said. She placed the towels over my face, covering my eyes, nose, and mouth. My heart thumped in panic, but I tried to steady myself.

The sink thrummed loudly as she turned on the water, but the sprayer had not been aimed at me yet.

“You haven’t been answering the phone I gave you,” Fayza said from somewhere close.

I started to lift my head but Aaqila pushed it back down. “Hold still,” she said in a soft voice.

“Yeah, about that…,” I said, my voice muffled.

I felt a palm against my forehead. Hot water—very hot water—struck the crown of my head, ran down my hair, the weight tugging me back. I smelled mint shampoo.

“The wafers were just wafers,” Fayza said.

“Right,” I said. My original plan was to play dumb. Really, the wafers were substance-free? Huh! I decided to abandon that scheme.

“Do you have the sample?” Fayza asked.

“No,” I said truthfully. I’d had the sample—but that was in Rovil’s hands now.

The hand on my forehead pressed down, forcing my skull back. The rim of the sink knifed into the back of my neck, directly on the C4 vertebra. I clenched the armrests. If I moved fast I might be able to grab one of the girl’s arms, but then what? In an instant she could bring her full weight down on my neck. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me. Maybe I’d only be paralyzed from the arms down.

“Please…,” I said. I wasn’t talking to Aaqila or Fayza.

Fayza said, “Who are you working for, Lyda?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not working for anyone,” I said. “I swear it.”

“You are too convenient,” Fayza said. “A week after I discover a new drug in the city, you appear. The creator herself, propositioning one of my employees. I direct you to a location where this drug is sold, and a day later—a single day—two men are dead. One of them my customer. I think you were trying to plug a leak.”

“You didn’t kill them?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself; I tried to raise my head. Quickly it was shoved back and I cried out.

“Why would I kill them?” Fayza asked.

“Competition?”

“How can I compete with these people? I don’t even know who they are.”

“Mafia,” I said. “Mexican Mafia.”

A moment of silence. God how I wished I could see her face. Aaqila continued to comb my hair with her fingers.

Fayza asked, “How do you know this?”

“The pastor,” I said. “He had gang tattoos.”

“I see. And you would have me believe that the La eMe, or their African bosses, are now selling designer drugs in my town. Or, perhaps, someone would like to goad me into believing that. An old-fashioned war that would make room for a third player. Is that who you’re working for—a third party?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m not working for anyone, just—”

I suddenly felt a weight pinning my forearms to the chair. “Who do you work for?” Fayza asked, very close to me now.

“I told you, no one.”

Something like a wire tightened around my left forearm, securing my arm to the chair. I yelled, but Fayza’s weight was all on my other arm now. A moment later that side was tied down, too. Panic swept through me in a white wave.

“Jesus, no—”

Suddenly hot water filled my nose and entered my mouth. The sprayer had soaked straight through the towel. I clamped my mouth shut, but inside I was screaming.

The spray kept coming. I tried to open my lips a fraction and suck air, but water filled my mouth, entered my lungs. My chest seized because there was no air to push the water out. My back arched, the mammalian drowning response kicking in to force my head above water—but of course there was no surface to break through.

Someone clutched the front of my shirt and jerked me to a sitting position. I retched, coughing and hacking, fighting for air.

The towels had fallen to my lap. Fayza stood in front of me, looking annoyed. “Who are you working for, Lyda? Who are you going to sell it to?”

I used my arm to wipe the moisture from my eyes, a good portion of which were my tears. I couldn’t believe how fast the drowning had worked. The death-panic was almost immediate.

I would like to say that I was filled with rage, that the torture provoked me into an action hero’s steely resolve. But the drowning had broken something in me. I was scared, and aching to get out of that room at all costs.