He had paid $47,000 to forget that any of this existed.
Leo didn't move. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Inside the house, a shadow passed by—someone walking, living, breathing real air, touching real things, making real mistakes.
He had paid $47,000 for that.
Now he was here. Minus 31. A rest stop on the edge of a real forest, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. The blue-lit path wound into the trees like a vein.