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"Of course. Every day. But after absolute loss, it still continues."

"What?"

"You. Consciousness. There is life after hope, you know."

The fire popped.

"And what does that life look like?"

"Not what you’d expect?"

"No?"

"You realize something," Matthew said.

"What’s that?"

"That you go on. That you can take so much more pain than you think. We’re built for it. It’s almost like that’s our purpose. We’re vessels that exist to be filled with pain."

"That’s depressing."

"No, that’s truth. And once you come to terms with it, it changes you. After everything is taken from you, you see that you still have control over so much. Control over how you cope with misery. You realize all the beautiful choices you still own. Like whether to love or hate. Or forgive."

Violet pushed against her knees and came to her feet. Walked over to the scrap-wood pile and loaded a few two-by-sixes into the fire that looked like they’d been torn from the side of a house. Outside, it was sleeting—the dry tick of ice pellets bouncing off the pavement.

"What kind of trouble are you in?" Matthew asked.

"I lost my husband a year ago."

"What happened?"

"He was murdered. My life has sort of...unwound...since then."

"You’ve lost a lot."

"I’ve lost everything."

Matthew struggled to his feet and shuffled over to his cardboard box which had once held a refrigerator. He dragged out a pillow and tossed it across the room.

"Sleep by the fire," he said. "Feed it when it gets low."

"Matthew," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Come here."

He staggered over.

Violet reached up and covered the earpiece, hoping her hand would muffle the microphone, if it was even activated.

"You ever see a man hanging around here?" she asked.

"In this building?"

"Shhh," Vi whispered. "No, I mean...what you called it earlier...the concrete barrens. This whole area."

Matthew sipped from his jug of wine.

"Like I told you, there’s bangers who come out here to do drug deals, initiations. People like me who try to live quiet and undisturbed. I mean there’s rumors, sure, but I never paid any attention—"

"What rumors?"

His brow furrowed, confused by her sudden interest. "Rumors of a man. They say he brings people here to torture them. It’s just an urban—"

"Who says this?"

"I don’t know. Just in passing by the people who live in or have reason to come to the concrete barrens. We hear things occasionally. Screams in the night. Hear about people dying, strange people around, but out here, everyone’s strange in one way or another. They chalk it up to some boogeyman, because I guess we need monsters, but the truth is, this is just a weird and sometimes dangerous place."

"What else do they say?"

"Just horror movie crap—he’s supernatural, he’s a demon, he takes your soul."

"You don’t believe it?" Vi asked.

"Of course not. Then again, it doesn’t mean I go wandering around the old GM factory after dark, or any time for that matter, but people just want to—"

"What’s special about the GM factory?"

"Nothing. It’s just a big empty building, and people say that’s where he’s from. The ruins."

"Do they have a name for him?"

"El hombre con el pelo negro largo."

"What is that, Spanish?"

"Yeah, the Latin Kings coined it."

"What’s it mean?"

"The man with long black hair."

A shard of ice trailed down the length of Violet’s spine.

"You’ll be okay right here?" Matthew asked.

"Yeah."

"Look, you’re welcome to stay tonight, but—"

"No, I understand. You’ve been very gracious."

The pillow smelled like spoiled cabbage, so she rested her head in the crook of her arm, facing the oil drum for the heat that radiated off the metal. Through tiny perforations, she could see the glow of the coals, pinpoints of sun-colored brilliance in the dark.

She closed her eyes.

Cold creeping in from every side except where the heat lapped at her face.

His voice came through the earpiece: "Violet? You asleep? Violet..."

"I’m awake," she whispered.

"You sound tired, but I’m afraid your night isn’t even close to over. You handled