the skirt around her knees. She must be a tourist. You remember your first trip to the upper levels: leaning over the edge into the angry swarm of mites, whirring and buzzing warnings and shoving you back like a million mosquito chaperones. Everyone tries it once — Except that there aren’t any mites around her. You clutch the railing. Hot, animal fear surges in your chest. She looks up at you and, across the gap of forty meters, smiles a brilliant, heartbreaking smile. Then she lets go and falls. You scream. “Fucking airsurfers,” says Derya. He steps off the moving 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