The shooting came from all sides, and the slowly moving bus, deprived of protection in the form of a frame, took the full blow. Rounds pierced the seat upholstery, struck the steel walls, and one almost pierced O.G., passing only an inch from her.

  — That inch could next time become a point under the eyelid. And since I’m now capable of aging, I might be able to sink into final nonbeing. And that’s a so-so prospect. — the girl wailed hysterically. — Let me take a look at what you’ve got on your elbow.

  Grabbing the bewildered I sharply, she plunged one hand into the river spread at that spot. Her arm almost drowned the little vessel. Realizing she could enter there entirely, O.G. accurately hurled the teddy bear and hit the boat straight on. Then she jumped in herself, slowing the fall with a parachute formed by her nightgown.

  Late autumn greeted the girl with streams of decayed leaves and icy wind. The guest of this body of water quickly slid a hand under the boat, pulled out a raincoat, and hunched up, preparing for a long journey.

  Exchanging glances, I and You asked one question at the same time:

  — Is all this because of those glittering projectiles?

  They had to be stopped, because the driver was distracted by them and couldn’t properly turn the wheel, since he had to persuade them to sit down on the passenger seats. And not all bullets agreed. Some were already conspiring, unwilling to become peaceful and indifferent.

  They had to act together. The route must not be interrupted. I and You understood this perfectly, because their own sole purpose was travel without a purpose.

  The rounds, however, had one. Otherwise why would they latch onto an innocent bus?!

  Jumping off directly while in motion and becoming two echoes of former consciousnesses, the Thoughts curled into a tight funnel. After that they rushed straight at the Uzis and revolvers flying along both sides and firing tirelessly. They needed to be delayed, although they clearly outpaced the Thoughts in speed.

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  The second Thought, which sometimes called itself You, managed to cover a hesitating weapon and it was drawn straight into it. Now a cast of a submachine gun with a bent bolt was forever imprinted on the misty silhouette. And the First decided to play tag, and the weapons, seeing the fate of their comrade, eagerly accepted the rules of the game.

  They coordinated, clustered together, and began flying off in an unknown direction. At this flight pace, the dark city turned into one continuous juicy blot, which now very much resembled the Thoughts. They focused on catching up with the disturbers of peace, talking on the fly:

  “There are flaws in their construction?”

  “Agility prevails over accuracy. Cowardice is the main of these three parameters,” — answered the Second Thought.

  Ahead appeared a huge arch, looking like a plastic hand frozen in the gesture: “Okay.” The crafty weapons tried to fly over it, between the upper fingers, to confuse the pursuers. Unfortunately for themselves, they only fluttered helplessly, realizing they would not be able to rise to the required height.

  Then all of them burst together into the space formed by this peculiar entrance. Their enemies rushed in right after them. Rolling over their heads, I and You regained form.

  The firearms vanished. Apparently, this space did not allow entry with weapons, and the enforcement of this uncompromising rule was closely monitored.

  — Why is there a sweater here? — You asked in confusion, picking up an empty soda can from the floor. — Did it get tired of being itself? Did it want to change its image?

  — The smell. It’s bitter, isn’t it? Unwelcoming to the nostrils. — I complained.

  It truly did not caress the sense of smell. A sort of mixture of mold, cheap hairspray, and burnt vinyl. The spine of a beached whale, lying where the bar counter should have been, made it impossible to forget — glasses were stocked here too.

  There they were — standing straight on every rib! But drinks were not served here. Liquid poured only from the can that You placed next to the glasses, causing it to tip over and begin boiling something tasty inside itself. With rosemary.

  Where the ceiling usually is — that is, above — a disco ball was spinning. Peeling and brand new at the same time, because it had conceived itself that way. Chipped mirrored squares cast off themselves and reattached, using the souls of those stuck in a rave of the past, who never managed to crawl back into ordinary life, returning to their families and the slow fading into the routine of the present.