sidewalk near you: tall, hook-nosed, the fashionable whorls of pox and acne making constellations of his cheeks and chest; the glowing, formal tattoos of his committees and lifebrands adorning his massive triceps. You swallow on a dry throat. Derya, of all people, hearing you scream! He gives you a hooded look. “They infect themselves with some designer virus - it lets them hack the city’s person-recognition systems. So the mites don’t see them when they jump. Watch —” She’s swept past the whalelike oval of the public pool on the 202nd, past the sloping mandala of the Google of offices on the 164th. At the 131st, below her, is the old Stock Exchange, hung upside-down now as a hipster den. Now the mites are finally closing in. A