You don't have to kill, she thought, you only have to reinvent. But how? When? What were the right materials? How rare were they? Where could they be found? And when.

The sky rose and fell and rose again. The earth beneath her feet was the color of eggplant. She dodged arrows. The wind rose, wailed, fell. The sky shone dark and iridescent, like a plague of beetles. The water rose, crested, froze, thawed, ebbed, and rose again. The wind was the color of bruises and wouldn't stop screaming. The earth beneath her feet was full of tiny exoskeletons that made crackling noises when she stepped on them. There was no stepping over. There was no over. Every square inch was occupied.

Battles converged, boundaries reversed, victors lumbered away from tables, spoiled by three too many ice cream sundaes. Statistics were compiled: 18,000, 3,500, 16,000. Checks were left until the red and white cloth was covered in scraps of paper, pale green and black and white, coffee-stained, cherry-pied. Hello! Thank you! Come Again! Her attention drifted until one of the tiny skeletons pierced the soft spot between two toes. Antennae snaked under the skin, she knelt down and pulled them out. As usual, gravity was irresistible. As she sat, prickling sensations raced up and down the backs of her legs. Why had she left, when she'd had all she'd needed. A tower of checks piled, played, teetered, and fell. Thank you! Come again!

As she moved across the desert, the landscape shifted and turned miraculous. There were upside-down chocolate hearts the size of giant redwoods, acres of trees the size of toothpicks, toothpicks designed for every possible use except picking teeth. Orange and blue tumbleweeds bounded across the sand. It might have been sinister, but she detected a lurking craftiness, a whiff of Elmer's glue, a bedazzler. She averted her gaze the only way possible, by closing her eyes. Sleep was tempting but potentially dangerous. How did it work again? With the sleeping and the waking? Eyes closed, eyes closed.

If she'd stayed there it would have been manageable. That's what they'd said.

If you go, who knows what will happen? They said that too.

Who knows.

"If you go, you'll see too much, more than you want to. You'll feel it too. It will stick to your belly and thighs, to your hips and butt like so many roast beef sandwiches." The woman raked her arm with bright pink talons, meaning to appear to comfort her.

What else is new.

"Where will you find tinspiration if you not here, with us?"

She laughed. "Did you say 'tinspiration' "?

The woman worked her gum with preternaturally white teeth. Circles of sweat stained the underarms of her powder-blue silk blouse. "I can't wear these goddamned heels all day!" she shrilled.

"What?"

"I wasn't talking to you. You need some ice water. It's hot. You're imagining things. You're hysterical."

"Am I hysterical? Because I thought that was you."

There was no one else in the general vicinity. She thought about saying that out loud: "There's no one else here." But thought better of it. The woman was popping little blue pills and pulling on running shoes. There was saliva forming at the corners of her mouth. She smelled like yeast and vinegar.

Her sister had wanted to come here, but hadn't quite made it. Now here she was, selfish, here, selfish, leaving, selfish. Just because she could. Jane would have loved it here. I loved it too, until I didn't.

The blonde woman wriggled out of her clothes, into some others, and took off running. Funny how there were tracks in every room, even the kitchen, even the bathrooms. Funny.

As the woman rounded her first lap, Ali inhaled. Raw beef and onions, salt. Her stomach was in her head and vice versa. Now would be a good time to go, she thought, and went to her room, where she reapplied lipstick, slipped on an emerald green dress, and stepped into faux leopard-skin heels. There was still time before her meeting, so she set the alarm for half an hour and napped.

But that was before, when sleep was safe. Now she had to find refuge in order to rest. Just her luck that when she fixed her mind on something, like finding a shelter of some sort, even a nice cave would do, the landscape morphed into the opposite of what she desired--or worse, the almost-opposite. A cave appeared, but it was riddled with streams. At the edge of a meadow, a cluster of bushes beckoned that, upon closer inspection, turned out to house a family of bedraggled foxes.

She paused at one of many bright orange terminals littering the countryside, searched for hotels in Tokyo, Paris, London, Singapore, Los Angeles. Vacancies abounded. She clicked. In-room facelifts, shaman-guided spiritventures, poker with celebrity superbots, transubstantial banquets packed with nutraceuticals that gobbled up calories, comfortable and discreet hypercolonic-friendly seating, followed by a variety of at-table aromatherapeutic cleansing services.

As usual, as always, she searched for Jane, unsure whether she was still alive, unsure whether she wanted to be. She withdrew a picture from her wallet, part of a fashion spread she'd clipped, several years ago, from Turnstyle Magazine. All Jane wore were meticulously placed pink-and-green frosting rosettes, squeezed from the pastry bag of one of LA's top chefs. Her auburn hair was covered with an icy blonde wig styled a la Louise Brooks. She grinned broadly, revealing what she considered to be horsey teeth. She loved posing and was no doubt amused by the easybake girl-as-cake gimmickry.

A bird alighted on the orange monitor, fidgeted, tapped beak to screen, fidgeted some more, then took off. Like everything with wings, it seemed destined for disaster. Like most things, it escaped. Playing, swooping, circling mercenary nets and filigreed cages, flourishing, falling, climbing, thrilling, finding spaces she couldn't see. Jane had seen them and flown the coop.

Jane had become her icon, her totem, god and goddess. She was aware. Something was always saving someone. Too heavy, too heavy, too light the clouds blazed with orange and blue, reflected refracted? from a sun that was always setting at the worst possible time.

As wolves approached, for instance.

Mouths dripping with blood from a recent kill. Mouths. She was still, hunched and leaning in toward the screen, as though its flat cool would save her, an oasis of pixels and what? Endless possibility. But wolves had no taste for computing. The thought made her laugh, and the sound soothed her. She was so close to the screen her nose touched it. No one here she inhaled, no fear, no scent, no breath. Wolves passed by, sniffing the air.

She leaned back in the chair, exhaled. After a minute she straightened, grabbed the armrests, pushed off with her feet, and wheeled over several feet of wet moss. Then she stood, looking back at the ground she'd covered, which bore no tracks. Soon. It would be dinnertime there, after a quick run, before a quick run. Some seaweed, sushi, sake, one square of bitter chocolate, several pints of cold green tea spiked with lemon and ginger. Even this failed to banish the aftertaste of rot from the women's mouths.

She cupped her hand to her mouth, breathed hard. All the berries and leaves had turned her breath spicy and green, like nasturtiums, like something that made running more palatable than walking. For once. She had a choice--to walk or to run. As usual she felt someone was ahead of her, but this time she didn't mind, much. It used to rain for weeks on end; now it never rained at all. She bit her tongue, hard, wondered if she'd ever encounter a friendly soul out here in this parched country. If she'd had a flag, she'd have planted it in the dry ground, shored it up with rocks. The quiet made her eyes sting.

If she met someone, she might ask where the nearest city was. Then again, she might not. Did it really matter any more? Suburbs and cities converged, boundaries dissolved.

Coyotes crashed backyard barbeques to the nonchalance of guests who wolfed down tofu dogs and tried to forget the taste of meat. Quaffing tonics of pomegranate and blueberry juices, they turned their noises up at the neighbors. Swollen, ruddy, sweat-soaked, next door a man toiled over a huge spit roasting emus and pigs and sipping vodka straight. Raucous laughter echoed from the waterless pool where kids flipped skateboards, refused to wear helmets, rode high on adrenalized Red Bull.

There were tutorials taught by three women with shocking white teeth, teeth that has never touched food or drink. One wore a red suit, another blue, the third yellow.

Tutorial Number One: What to wear and how to wear it. How do we know what to wear? We don't. But you do. Claim your inner wardrobe. Are you pastel or jewel-toned or neutral. Are you pearlescent, opalescent, obsolescent? In short: Who are you and what are you made of? Let's find out together! (Note: Due to space limitations no one over 120 lbs will be permitted to enroll. Lose it or lose it, ladies!)

This class would be taught by the fetching Lady Red. No one knew her real name. But she was a stunner. Ginger hair, tall and lean as a racehorse and genetically engineered with berry-stained cheeks and marvelous mauve lips. Permanent make-up, make-up in her make up. Naturally perfectly polished. She always wore three accessories. A tasteful rose-gold watch, along with matching earrings and a necklace that read "Ought Coacher." The only defect Lady Red was rumored to possess: a tendency to grind her teeth excessively during sleep, which had already resulted in the ruination of three perfectly good sets of dentures.