The apartment block was the same building it had always been. Same doors. Same corridors. Same rooms behind them. But when Keith woke from the operation and reached for what he knew — the salt he could not taste, the word that would not come, the memory filed somewhere he could no longer find — he understood what had happened while he was under. Décenté had been through every room. Not destroying. Displacing. Creating maximum confusion so that the recovery would cost everything Keith had, and the younger me would spend his available energy just trying to find where things had been moved. The battle now was not against the haemorrhage. It was room by room. Door by door. Finding what had been taken and learning the new map of a mind that was still his — just rearranged.