Streetlights were coming on. Goods were on offer, in the windows of shops staffed by automata, by homunculi, by the odd person either present or peripheral. He’d known a girl who’d worked in a shop near here, though he couldn’t recall the street, or her name. "I’ve been worried about you," said the rental. "Things are getting strange, here." They were passing a shop in which a Michikoid in riding habit was folding scarves. "How do you stand having a beard?" the rental asked, running fingertips up its pale cheek.