She recited the year and place of his birth, his BAMA Single Identification Number, and a string of names he gradually recognized as aliases from his past. “You been here awhile?” He saw the contents of his bag spread out across the bed, unwashed clothing sorted by type. The shuriken lay by itself, between jeans and underwear, on the sand-tinted temperfoam. “Where is Kolodny?” The two men sat side by side on the couch, their arms crossed over tanned chests, identical gold chains slung around their necks. Case peered at them and saw that their youth was counterfeit, marked by a certain telltale corrugation at the knuckles, something the surgeons were unable to erase. “Who’s Kolodny?” “That was the name in the register. Where is she?” “I dunno,” he said, crossing to the bar and pouring himself a glass of mineral water. “She took off.”
