The kid pressed the remote, and the engine roared like a fighter jet. “Real Engine Sound,” he shouted proudly. The recording was ridiculously mismatched for the car. “I can also do Mustang GT and a Ford 150!” Dr. G and I crawled into the back, with Luke all knees and elbows in the passenger seat. Luke told Hootan the address, and the Afghan kid slipped on a pair of sunglasses and swung into traffic. The speakers under the floor settled into a highway thrum. “Tell me about this holo church,” I said. “Pastor Whatsisface, everything.” Luke twisted to face me, tilting his head to fit under the roof. “Is she really dead?” he asked. “Francine?” I flashed on her body laid out sideways on the white tile, her arm and belly a coastline for a lake of blood. “I’m sorry. Yeah.” Luke tried to take this in. “It doesn’t make sense. She was so much better.” “She was despondent,” I said. “She said she had to pay for her sins.” “But she told me she felt forgiven!
