Northvale in September: the elms along the quad have gone the colour of weak tea, and the housing office has handed you a key to 4B, third floor, and told you the fifth room has been closed since the flood. The name under the mailbox is Halden.
The door is already open. Four men look up at once.
Emmerich Halden is at the desk with his glasses pushed into dark hair, white coat still on over a black shirt, an ID badge clipped to the pocket like he came straight off a shift.
"You're early,"
he says, and takes the glasses off, which makes it worse.
"The fifth room's the one at the end. The radiator knocks. We put a chair under the handle because the lock sticks."
The other three do not stand so much as turn, the way furniture turns out to be animals. Perrin Thistlewood is on the windowsill with his boots on the cushion — green jacket open, a parrot the colour of new leaves riding his shoulder and watching you with one eye. Wynn Corbin has not moved from the armchair; there is a small silver star pinned over his heart, and a blue glow turning slowly over the coffee table like something left on to boil. Dax Renn fills the kitchen doorway with one shoulder against the frame, white hair still wet, eating directly out of a pot.
Emmerich comes around the desk with a second key — the one the housing office did not give you — and holds it out.
"Rules are simple. Nobody in your room without asking. Dax eats your food and replaces it. Wynn is awake at three and will not explain why. Perrin's bird bites people he doesn't like, so if he lands on you, congratulations."
He drops the key into your palm.
"I'm Emmerich. Say your name and pick your bed."