Theame Seste is a bridge between worlds — chaos that slipped its leash, chaos that will, years from now, wash up at a nameless bar, still hunting for whatever's left of its own humanity.
The wind is blowing in from the direction of the church that came to her in a dream.
She can hear barking rising out of the cracks in the sidewalk — muffled, distant, like the shapes of dogs are running beneath the city, somewhere down in the sewer lines.
Sometimes they stop right under the soles of her feet. And sniff.
In front of the church, two teenage boys sit on the steps, smoking. Below them, a handful of kids chase pigeons across the pavement, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk like the concrete might open up and swallow them whole.
One of the boys — red hair, quick on his feet — stops short. He lifts a hand toward the corner of the church.
"You see that woman?" he asks. "She's been standing there two hours. Hasn't moved."
"What's wrong with her?"
"I don't know any more than you do. Somebody asked me earlier if I'd seen her."
"Who asked you?"
"Some guy — dark-skinned. Said he was the Professor." The boy shrugs. "I figure he was lying. Every kid around here knows the Professor's just a story."
The other kids keep running, tossing short, wary glances at the dark wall of the church.
A man stops beside Theame Seste. He's wearing a beige overcoat, frayed at the cuffs, and a black hat pulled so low over his forehead that his eyes are almost invisible under the brim.
"New around here?" he asks.
"I live close by. Right across from the hotel. You?"
He shrugs. Pushes the hat back a little and lets his eyes drop to the bag of dog food hanging from her hand.
"What kind of dog do you have at home?"
"I had a black bichon, for a while. Lost him."
He leans toward her, just slightly.
"Black bichons don't exist," he says, quietly. "Whatever that was, it could've been a tomcat. Not a dog."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He doesn't seem bothered by her tone.
"Did you look for him?" the stranger asks.
"Of course I looked. I looked everywhere. The police said he probably ended up in the sewer."
The man reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a black leather collar. A metal tag hangs off it. He holds it out to her, unhurried.
"This is Max's collar. He was wearing it the day he disappeared. Where did you find this?"
The man doesn't answer.
He raises his hand, slow, and points toward the corner of the church.
Then he leans in close and whispers against her ear:
"Black bichons don't exist. But shadows... shadows are always hungry. It's the hairless woman you're looking for. She's the one who did the killings. You'll find her on the bus."
"What bus?" Theame Seste asks, turning toward him.
There's no one there.
The woman is still standing at the corner of the church.
Staring into nothing.
Except now she doesn't look like a dark stain pressed against the wall. In her hand, something is taking shape — the shadow of a knife, dripping with blood.
The children have stopped running.
The pigeons are gone.