Grey light filtered through a window, over empty tables and chairs in some sort of eating house. Not normal tables—the surface was a crystalline screen with strange characters . . . which she could read. The menu.
It was raining heavily outside, a curtain of water that obscured the view beyond a grey building on the other side of a street. A man sat by himself in the corner near the window, his spidery hands—the index and middle fingers much longer than the others—clutching a cup.
He looked up; a smile crinkled the skin around deep-set eyes, the irises yellow with a black rim. “Daya.”
Jessica drew back a chair. Once again she was in the body of the strange man—that’s why she could read the menu.
“How are you, Wonan?” the man asked, and it was strange to have the sound come from her mou
