A nurse checks on Hallon. On her way out, she places a blanket on Milo’s lap. Later, she taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mister, but it’s time for me to take care of the young Miss. She’ll be wanting her privacy.”

Milo, focused on his calculations, realizes that a request has been made of him. The part of him constantly observing notes the dawn light streaming through the window, the ache in his lower back from sitting all night, and the fact that he hasn’t eaten in thirty-three hours and twenty-two minutes. Alerted that his attention is needed, Milo rouses and replays the nurse’s request in his memory. “Of course,” he says, getting up.

He waits in the hall, while the nurse closes the curtain and sings as she works. The words are hard to make out, but the probability that Hallon would like the melody is high at 92.02 percent. The thought cheers him.

Abdul Latif Eitwali, also called the General, walks towards him. “Exiled you, have they?”

Milo nods, suddenly shy. The last time he’d seen this man, he’d vomited all over his shoes. Not that there’d been much in his stomach at the time, but all the same—it was rude. Thankfully, the numbers are clean again. “I’m sorry about your shoes.”

The General pats him on the shoulder. “Please, think nothing of it. There is no need for embarrassment. Not between friends, eh?”

“Are we friends?” Milo asks.

“Not yet, but we will be,” the General says. “And to begin us on the right foot, I am here to offer you the opportunity to breakfast with an old retired soldier. Will you accept?”

“Who is it?”

The equations around the General’s mouth turn upward. “But me, of course.”

“Oh. That’s kind, but I don’t think I should leave—” Milo’s stomach growls.

The General laughs. “Your stomach knows what is good for you. This is a truth all soldiers accept.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” Milo says.

“We are all soldiers. Life makes us so. But no—let us not wander into the land of philosophy before we have had a proper meal. Come, you would be doing an old man a favor.”

The old man in question looks healthy enough to run circles around Milo. He’s about to decline when his stomach growls again.

“You are surrounded, I think.” The General’s voice softens. “And it will be a while yet before your friend wakes. You must stay healthy and strong for her.”

Milo sighs. He could do with a bit of toast and jam.

The General recognizes surrender when he sees it. “Good, good! I know just the place!”

Outside, the street is crowded with people in chaotic motion; each with their own colors, sounds, and trajectories. A giant pulls an empty carriage past. A woman with antlers walks by, pretty blue ribbons streaming behind her. A man with no arms and one leg hops alongside. A woman yells from a window across the street to someone down below, but the words are lost to Milo, their equations clashing with the noises all around him.

Milo, wide open from a night of calculating, staggers at the sudden assault on his senses. He closes his eyes and brings up the models that filter for patterns and social cues, for identifying danger and prioritizing a pre-made list of his interests, which seems to be growing longer every day. With a shuddering breath, the models click into place and the world normalizes—or at least Milo’s best approximation for normal.

The General waits beside him, his expression—thoughtful. “No Town can be an uneasy place, but it has its charms, I assure you. Now, if we are ready, let us be off.”

He guides Milo away from the hospital. There’s a sign above the door: The Barmaki Hospital for the Poor and Dispossessed. Next to it: the emblem of four sparrows on a field of green.

The General chats as they walk, telling him the street names as they go: the Way of the Bread Makers, the Avenue of Fallen Soldiers, the Road of All Signs. Those are the official names, he explains. The people of No Town have their own names for them: Rat Hole, Dung Lung, and Toadstool. The nicknames also double as the names of the neighborhoods.

Their walk is interrupted when Milo stops to admire a coppersmith’s wares. The pots and pans are stacked in neat, orderly piles, the warm metal shimmering in the morning sun. The proprietor has no eyes or ears. A boy rests on a blanket beside him, his spine turned in on itself. When a customer approaches, the boy touches the proprietor to signal that someone is there. To buy, you must talk into one of the proprietor’s hands and place the money in the other.

“No one steals from the smith?” Milo asks.

“Not often,” the General says. “There is no rule, but it is a thing frowned upon. There are—how does the expression go—more worthy targets.”

“Meaning?”

“Stoneside—the area far to the east where the wealthy live.” The General looks at the boy. “And also he is here, just in case, to sound the alarm if someone were to do the wrong thing.”

Milo looks up and down the street. It’s lined with smiths specializing in tin, brass, wrought iron, and steel. He can hear the clink clink clink of small hammers and the powerful clang of metal being worked on an anvil.

“This place is?”

“Tin Belly,” the General says.

Milo nods, storing the information away. He realizes that there’s a metal grate at his feet, that he’s seen them at regular intervals. He bends down to better examine its forging.

The General pulls him back. “No, please do not. It is considered rude.”

“Pardon?”

There’s movement on the other side of the grate. A pair of white eyes appear and then look away.

“What—what was that?”

“It is who, not what,” the General says. “The Null are unfortunates so tainted that they must live apart. The people of No Town call them the Hidden. The people Stoneside call them by worse names.”

“And they live in the sewers?”

“Yes,” the General says, “along with the rest of Dawrtaine’s waste.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

The General nods. “Yes, that is probably safest.”

###

Their destination turns out to be The Standing Goat, which is on the Street of the Haughty Maiden. The neighborhood is residential, and the buildings around it are occupied by extended families and their close relations. The General points out the Houses—here is Tabriz, there is Masry, across from the street from the inn is Sanass. The family names fade, as Milo’s senses narrow, his eyes pulled to the spot where Hallon had fought and fell.

Milo’s breathing speeds up. His heart beats hard, the noise filling his ears. “I don’t think I can go there.”

“That is a shame,” the General says. “The Goat has the best food in all of No Town—the chef, Wahid, is a master—but no matter. I understand. We shall adjust our plans and settle for second best. Only, we have a dilemma. To go there, we pass through the Haughty Maiden. To go around would take us too far out of our way. Will you humor an old man and take the direct route?”

Can Milo do it? The models are uncertain. The morning air is cool but sweat beads on his forehead. “I—I can try, but let’s walk quickly.”

“That we can do!” The General leads him briskly past the inn.

Milo feels nauseous, but he forces himself to look ahead and keep walking. It objectively takes only seven minutes and twenty seconds to make the crossing, but inside it feels like forever.

“There,” the General says. “That was not so bad, was it? Now, to eat!”

They take a circuitous route deeper into No Town, skirting an area called the Maze, snaking through a series of alleys and back ways that make Milo wonder if the General knows what the words “direct route” really mean. They walk and walk until somehow they end up at the Street of the Haughty Maiden again.

The General rubs his chin. “We must have gotten turned around.”

Milo’s stomach flips over. “I—what?” He retraces the route in his head and realizes they’ve come full circle.

“I have it,” the General says. “We turned wrongly at Pismo’s Lament.” He grabs Milo’s arm and pulls him past the Standing Goat. Milo doesn’t have time to get upset, pulled along by the General’s momentum.

They trek through No Town again, stopping only to buy a pastry stuffed with lamb and pine nuts. “A snack,” the General says. “We must wait a little longer for the true treasure.”

They pass a street of rug makers, traverse several more alleys, only to find themselves once more in the Haughty Maiden.

“I don’t think you know where you’re going,” Milo says.

The General puffs out his cheeks. “It would seem so. Truly, I am at a loss. I usually have a much better head for directions.” His eyes light up, the equations dancing. “Ah! I have it, we should have turned at the Cornerstone.”

This time, Milo compares their route to the other attempts. They skip the rug makers and pass through a small plaza where they stop to buy pastries filled with spinach and onions—quite tasty—before diving back into No Town’s many alleys to land—no surprise to Milo—back at the Haughty Maiden.

“You’re doing it on purpose!”

At least the General has the courtesy to look embarrassed. “It is my traitorous stomach which leads me here against my will. If you must blame, then blame it.”

The stew at the Standing Goat had been wonderful—warm and hearty. Milo sighs at the memory. He looks at the spot where Hallon nearly died. He’s already walked past it three times now. If I can live in the house my parents died in, he thinks, I can walk down this street one more time. Steeling himself, he says, “Let’s go.”

The General smiles wide. “An excellent decision!”

Inside the inn, the restaurant is empty, the morning customers already gone. Safi waves from behind the bar, and the General heads to a table near where Tanith Hataisi sang. There’s a chessboard with the pieces in mid-play.

Milo hesitates. “Is it okay to sit here?”

“Of course,” the General says. “This is my usual table. Now please sit, sit—you are most welcome.”

Milo does as he’s told. “Do you play chess?” It looks like black’s winning, but only by a slim margin.

“Noor does me the honor of a game most nights.” The General smile spreads. “Sometimes, I even win.”

Safi joins them. “Everything all right?”

“As well as can be hoped,” the General says. “The young lady is still unconscious, and I have brought our friend here to a place where real food is served.”

Safi grins. “The hospital’s food isn’t so bad.”

“Oh, it is very wholesome,” the General says, “but it cannot compare to the Standing Goat. Now tell us—what does Master Wahid offer today? I am almost faint with hunger.”

“We’ve been walking all morning,” Milo says, explaining.

“It’s still a bit early for lunch,” Safi says, “but we have a lentil soup ready. Also a salad of greens and fried okra.”

“For me, the soup,” the General says.

“I’ll—ah—take the same,” Milo says.

With a nod, Safi heads to the kitchen. “Wahid, two bowls of soup!”

The General leans forward. “It is a shame we missed breakfast, but I do not think you will be disappointed. The lentil soup is a work of art.”

“You come here a lot,” Milo says.

“Why, I live here,” the General says, “and so do you!”

“Oh, I see. Wait, what? I live where?”

“Here! Where else would you stay? At the hospital? They already have too few beds.” The General pats Milo’s hand. “Do not worry. Karam explained everything and made the arrangements for you.”

Milo’s stomach roils, but it’s not hunger this time. His hands clench, his blood pressure rises, and his face feels flush.

“What happened that night was not of Karam’s doing,” the General says, watching Milo. “I ask that you not blame him for it. You have your troubles and so does he. So do we all. Now, would you like some tea?”

Milo takes a long breath. “I would love tea.”

The Generals motions to Safi to bring tea. He says to Milo, “I find that it helps me recover from difficult days, and you have most certainly had a difficult day. Several, from the looks of it.”

“You have no idea.”

“I imagine not,” the General says, “but I have ears and a friendly disposition, or so I am told. I am happy to lend you both if you wish to talk about what has happened.”

“I don’t know where I’d begin,” Milo says. “And even if I did, I’m not sure you’d believe me, not when I don’t believe myself. So many impossible things have happened. I mean, I’ve worked out some of the math, and there’s a small chance—the most minuscule of probabilities—that the events I’ve experienced are real, but that’s only because I’ve been incredibly generous with the starting assumptions. No, the truth is much more likely that this is all a hallucination, and I’m the one in a coma, not Hallon. But no—the sensory inputs are too real for that. If I’m honest with myself, I must accept that this isn’t a dream. But if I’m sane—or I suppose, mostly sane—then what does that mean for our understanding of mathematics, physics, cosmology, and all the other sciences? Everything gets turned upside down. Everything! Well, maybe not everything—you have to have some place to start, but our knowledge is so incomplete, it’s staggering!” Milo adjusts his spectacles. “So you see? I just don’t know where to begin.”

Safi stands beside the table with a tray bearing a brass tea kettle and two small glasses. “Did he breathe through any of that?”

“I do not think so,” the General says.

“Did you understand it?” Safi asks.

“Not a word,” the General says, “but I gather that our friend is here because of peculiar circumstances.”

Safi laughs and pours the tea. “Peculiar circumstances—I like that. He’ll fit right in then.”

Milo looks to the General for clarification. “What does that mean?”

“Simply that all of us have a story,” the General says.

“And then some,” Safi says, leaving the table.

The tea is hot, sweet, and strong. Milo drinks it with a sigh. The lentil soup arrives along with a stack of spongy flatbread.

When the General sees Milo attacking the food, he calls Safi over. “We will need a second bowl, I think.”

Two bowls turn into three, and Milo uses the spongy bread to sop up the last of the soup.

A man walks out of the kitchen. He has bushy brows and a scar across his chin. His spine is crooked, but the equations are vigorous. He slaps Milo on the back. “Now, this is someone who knows how to eat! You should learn to eat like this, General. It would finally put some meat on your bones.”

“I do well enough as is,” the General says.

Wahid shakes his head. “You don’t understand how many people depend on you. Well, you’ll either learn or not, and in the meantime, this boy will be an example to you.” He says to Milo, “Anytime you want to eat, just find me. You’re welcome in my kitchen.” He claps Milo on the back again before leaving.

“You made a friend,” the General says. “Several, but let us not think on it now. Unless I am mistaken, you are in need of a bed.”

He’d caught Milo yawning. “I should get back to the hospital,” Milo says.

“They will bring news if there is any,” the General says. “In the meantime, a soldier rests when they can, so that they can be ready when the need arises.”

“But I don’t have anywhere to stay,” Milo says.

“As I said, Karam made the arrangements. I believe he spent his savings to pay for a month’s lodgings for you and your friend.”

“Was it—was it expensive?”

“Best not to ask,” the General says. “Although one does wonder how he came to save up such a sum.”

“I see,” Milo says, feeling guilty about the thoughts he’d had about Karam.

“He also offered to arrange a meeting with a dealer,” the General says.

“A what?”

“A dealer, an individual who can help you find a job.” The General sips his tea. “Your friend’s injuries are serious and will take time to heal. You will need a way to support her and yourself.”

“Oh,” Milo says, “but I don’t know how to do anything except invent things that are either illegal or don’t work.”

“You have an odd profession,” the General says, “but not to worry—young Karam has excellent contacts. The dealer shall—how do you say—deal with it. In the meantime, here comes Safi to guide you to your room.”

Milo hasn’t slept at all, and the General makes good sense. Maybe a short nap would be all right.

The elevator is motorized, which is a relief. Milo’s nerves are frayed, and he doesn’t know if he could take another elevator ride like the one to meet Armin. Milo had nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the car being pulled up by hand. The Standing Goat’s elevator is steady, though. According to Safi, motorized elevators are all the rage Stoneside, but this is the only one of its kind in No Town.

The third floor hallway is lined with eight doors. Safi opens one to show him a closet—except there’s a pallet on the ground, a window, and some shelves on the wall. “This is your room,” he says.

Milo looks for another door. “Where?”

“Here.”

There’s just enough space for Milo to stretch out, the numbers confirm it. “Are all your rooms like this?”

“No,” Safi says, “but this is our cheapest private room, and Karam wanted his dinars to stretch for as long as possible. There’s a water closet two doors down. Breakfast is included with your stay, but lunch and dinner are extra.”

Milo nods. “I see. Yes, thank you. And what about Hallon?”

“Once they can move her safely, she’ll go into another room down at the other end. Same as this.” Safi pauses. “I can’t tell you not to worry, but she’s in good hands. My mother’s the best doctor in Dawrtaine.”

“Then why does she run an inn?”

The equations around Safi’s face harden. “That’s a long story,” he says. “Enjoy your stay.” He closes the door on Milo.

Milo stands on his pallet, measuring the length and breadth of the room, letting his mind work its way through recent events, adding to and tweaking the models he’s assembled for the people he’s met. He wants to collapse, to fall into a heap, but he forces himself to stand there, calculating, calculating, until the equations fill his mind, and only then does he slide down the wall to sleep.