You're not a person, they say, circling. You're one of Them. From the other side.

Douglas Mortimer strode in from the blizzard like a snowblown angel of death, dressed all in black from his cowboy boots to his gaucho hat. The snow gusted in around him until the mechanism slammed the glass door shut, cutting off the squall. But even with the snow gone, there was still a seething dance of particles all over his face and body. The film grain made him seem as rough as sandpaper against a backdrop of pool tables and beer signs in a dimly-lit bar that was rendered in deep, smooth shades.

Anna stared up at Sally. Her hair and skin were so pale as to be almost white, especially in the weak sunlight of the factory. She was only twenty-two, Anna knew, only five years older than Anna herself, but she looked worn through, like milk watered down too thin.