When the sun came up, backlighting the trees atop the vast stretches of Lake Michigan’s dunes along 1-94, he checked into a roadside motel. He slept until dusk, then dyed his hair jet black. He put on mirror shades and got into his car. On the way to a supermarket, he mused that his disguises might soon be pointless. If he did not find good blood soon, his appearance could change wildly. His voice was different—it was higher and raspier, as if his vocal chords had been sanded. His left earlobe had grown a hole too, and the hazel eye was turning black. At the supermarket he bought five of the bloodiest steaks he could find. Back in his motel room, he took each steak and, gripping both ends, wrung it out like a wet bath towel. He drained the blood into drinking glasses. The steaks filled two glasses, and he drank the blood while watching a re-run of Clone City, an old show about embittered human clones and their second class societal status.
