The Cormorant Hunt

In the last twenty-four hours, Falk found himself more acutely aware of his body than he’d felt since puberty, and separate from it at the same time. His views were a classic mishmash of imported conspiracy theories, continuing antivax delirium, legitimate grievances, and good old-fashioned antisemitism. Falk smiled in the face of the enemy. “It was fine.” “Brilliant.” Burnham spun toward the other man, who’d hung back politely on what Falk had thought was the passenger’s side but was, of course, the driver’s. “Speaking of sparkling. The perspective of a day trip with two Orlok mercenaries in tow didn’t thrill him, but the idea of going outside did: Even stripped of all devices, he’d finally be able to learn the hideout’s location.