Showing up uninvited is not the only thing that makes me nervous about my plan to visit Mira. Another thing that worries me is the fact that the address in question happens to be in Brooklyn.

Why do people do that? Why live in the NYC boroughs? My moms are guilty of this as well—their choice, Staten Island, is even crazier. At least the subway goes to Brooklyn. Nothing goes to Staten Island, except the ferry and some express buses. It’s even worse than New Jersey.

Still, I don’t have a choice. Brooklyn is the location of the address, so off to Brooklyn I go. With deep reservations, I catch the Q train at City Hall and prepare for the epic journey.

As I sit on the subway, I read a book on my phone and occasionally look out the window. Whenever I do, I see graffiti on the walls of buildings facing the tracks. Why couldn’t this girl live someplace more civilized, like the Upper East Side?

To my surprise, I get to my stop, Kings Highway, in less than an hour. From here, it’s a short walk to my destination, according to my phone’s GPS.

The neighborhood is . . . well, unlike the city. No tall buildings, and the signs on businesses are worn and tacky. Streets are a little dirtier than Manhattan, too.

The building is on East 14^th Street, between Avenues R and S. This is the only aspect of Brooklyn I appreciate. Navigating streets named using sequential numbers and letters in alphabetical order is easy.

It’s late in the afternoon, so the sun is out, but I still feel unsafe—as though I’m walking at night under an ominous-looking, ill-lit bridge in Central Park. My destination is across a narrow street from a park. I try to convince myself that if people let their children play in that park, it can’t be that dangerous.

The building is old and gloomy, but at least it’s not covered in graffiti. In fact, I realize I haven’t seen any since I got off the train. Maybe my judgment of the neighborhood was too hasty.

Nah, probably not. It is Brooklyn.

The building has an intercom system. I gather my courage and ring the apartment door from downstairs.

Nothing.

I start pressing buttons randomly, trying to find someone who might let me in. After a minute, the intercom comes alive with a loud hiss and a barely recognizable, “Who’s there?”

“UPS,” I mumble. I’m not sure if it’s the plausibility of my lie or someone just working on autopilot, but I get buzzed in.

Spotting an elevator, I press the up arrow, but nothing happens. No light comes on. No hint that anything is working.

I wait for a couple of minutes.

No luck.

I grudgingly decide to schlep to the fifth floor on foot. Looks like my assessment of the neighborhood was spot on after all.

The staircase has an unpleasant odor to it. I hope it’s not urine, but my nose suggests it is. The noxious aroma on the second floor is diluted by the smells of boiled cabbage and fried garlic. There isn’t a lot of light, and the marble steps seem slippery. Watching my step, I eventually make it to the fifth floor.

It’s not until I’m actually staring at the door of 5E that I realize I don’t have a good plan. Or any plan at all, really. I came this far, though, so I’m not about to turn around and go home now. I go ahead and ring the doorbell. Then I wait. And wait. And wait.

After a while, I hear some movement inside the apartment. Focusing, I watch the eyehole, the way I’ve seen people do in the movies.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think a shadow comes across it. Someone might be looking at me.

Still no response.

I try knocking.

“Who is this?” says a male voice.

Shit. Who the hell is that? A husband? A boyfriend? Her father? Her pimp? Every scenario carries its own implications, and few promise anything good. None I can think of, actually.

“My name is Darren,” I say, figuring that honesty is the best policy.

No answer.

“I’m a friend of Mira’s,” I add. And it’s only when the words leave my mouth that I recall that she lives here under a different name. Ilona or something.

Before I can kick myself for the slip, the door swings open. A guy who appears to be a few years older than me stands there looking at me with tired, glassy eyes.

It takes a moment for me to notice one problem. No, make that one huge problem.

The guy is holding a gun.

A gun that looks bigger than his head.

The fear that slams my system is debilitating. I’ve never been threatened with a gun before. At least, not directly like this. Sure, the bouncers in Atlantic City had guns, but they weren’t aiming them in my direction at point-blank range. I never imagined it would be this frightening.

I phase into the Quiet, almost involuntarily.

Now that I’m looking at my frozen self with a gun to his/my face, the panic is diluted. I’m still worried, though, since I am facing the gun in the real world.

I take a deep breath. I need to figure out my plan of action.

I look at the shooter.

He’s tall, skinny. He’s wearing glasses and a white coat with a red stain on it.

The white coat looks odd—and is that red spot blood, or something else? Questions race through my mind. Who is he? What is he doing in there that requires a gun? Is he cooking meth? It is Brooklyn after all.

At the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that the guy does not look like an average street criminal. There is keen intelligence in his eyes. His uncombed hair and the pens and ruler in the pocket of his white coat paint a strange picture. He almost looks like a scientist—albeit on the mad side.

Of course, that does not rule out the drug angle. He could be like the character on that show about a teacher who cooks meth. Although, come to think of it, that same show made it clear that you don’t do that in an apartment building. The smell is too strong to keep the operation hidden, or something like that.

Now that I’ve had some time to calm down in the Quiet, I get bolder. I begin to wonder if the gun is real. Or maybe I’m just hoping it’s fake. Gathering my courage, I reach out to take it from the guy’s hand.

When my fingers touch his, something strange happens. Or stranger, rather.

There are now two of him.

I look at the picture, and my jaw proverbially drops.

There is a second guy in the white coat, right there, and this one is moving. I’m so unaccustomed to the idea of people moving while I’m in the Quiet that I lose my ability to think, so I just stand there and gape at him.

The guy looks at me with an expression that’s hard to read, a mixture of excitement and fear. As if I were a bear standing in the middle of a Brooklyn apartment building hall.

“Who are you?” he breathes, staring at me.

“I’m Darren,” I repeat my earlier introduction, trying to conceal my shock.

“Are you a Reader, Darren?” the guy asks, recovering some of his composure. “Because if you’re a Pusher, I will unload that gun in your face as soon as we Universe Split, or Astral Project, or Dimension Shift, or whatever it is you people call it. As soon as we’re back to our bodies, you’re dead, Pusher.”

He has an unusual accent—Russian, I think. That reminds me of Bert’s theory that Mira is a spy. Maybe he was right. Maybe she travels with a whole gang of Russian spies.

I only understand one thing about what the Russian guy is saying: he knows that I’m at his mercy when we get back. That means that he, like me, understands how the Quiet works.

The terms he’s using sort of make sense to me. All except ‘Reader’ and ‘Pusher.’ I know that even if I were this ‘Pusher,’ I wouldn’t want to admit it and get shot. He probably realizes that as well.

“I am sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I admit. “I don’t know what a Reader or a Pusher is.”

“Right,” the guy sneers. “And you’re not aware of our bodies standing over there?”

“Well, yeah, of that I’m painfully aware—”

“Then you can’t expect me to believe that you can Split, but not be one of us—or one of them.” He says that last word with disgust.

Okay, so one thing is crystal clear: Reader is good, Pusher is bad. Now if only I could find out why.

“If I were a Pusher, would I just show up here like this?” I ask, hoping I can reason with him.

“You fuckers are clever and extremely manipulative,” he says, looking me up and down. “You might be trying to use some kind of reverse psychology on me.”

“To what end?”

“You want me dead, that’s why, and you want my sister dead too,” he says, his agitation growing with every word.

I make a mental note at the mention of ‘sister,’ but I don’t have time to dwell on it. “Would showing up like this be the best way to kill you?” I try to reason again.

“Well, no. In fact, I’ve never heard of Pushers doing their dirty work themselves,” he says, beginning to look uncertain. “They like to use regular people for that, like puppets.”

I have no idea what he’s referring to, so I continue my attempts at rational discourse.“So isn’t it possible that I’m simply a guy searching for answers?” I suggest. “Someone who doesn’t know what you’re talking about?”

“No,” he says after considering it for a moment. “I’ve never heard of untrained, unaffiliated people with the ability to Split. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, outside my door.”

“I can explain that part,” I say hurriedly. “You see, I met a girl in Atlantic City. A girl who made me realize that I’m not crazy.”

At the mention of Atlantic City, I have his full attention. “Describe her,” he says, frowning.

I describe Mira, toning down her sex appeal.

“And she told you her name and where she lives?” he asks, clearly suspicious.

“Well, no,” I admit. “I was detained by the casino when they thought we were working together to cheat the house. I learned a few of her aliases from them. After that, I got help from a friend who’s a very good hacker.”

There I go again, using honesty. I’m on a roll. I don’t think I’ve ever said this many truthful statements in such a short time.

“A good hacker?” he asks, looking unexpectedly interested.

“Yes, the best,” I reply, surprised. That’s the completely wrong thing to focus on in this story, but as long as he’s not angry and trigger-happy, I’ll stick with the subject.

He looks me straight in the eyes for the first time. He seems uncomfortable with this. I can tell he doesn’t do it often.

I hold his gaze.

“Here’s the deal, Darren,” he says, his eyes shifting away again after a second. “We’re going to get back. I won’t shoot you. Instead I will snap your picture. Then I’ll text it to my sister.”

“Okay,” I say. I’ll take a picture over a bullet any day.

“If you do anything to me before she gets here, she’ll have proof that you were here,” he elaborates.

“That makes sense,” I lie. So far, there’s very little of this that makes any sense at all. “Do whatever you think will help us resolve this misunderstanding.”

“The only way to resolve it is to get proof that you’re not a Pusher.”

“Then let’s get that proof,” I say, hoping I’ll get bonus points for my willingness to cooperate.

“Okay,” he says, and I can tell that his mood is improving. “You must agree to submit to a test, then. Or a couple of tests, actually.”

“Of course,” I agree readily. Then, remembering the red stain on his coat, I ask warily, “Are they painful, these tests?”

“The tests are harmless. However, if it turns out that you’re a Pusher, you better pray my sister isn’t here at that point.”

I swallow nervously as he continues, “I would just shoot you, you see. But Mira, she might make your death slow and very painful.”

I rethink some of my fantasies about Mira. She’s sounding less and less appealing. “Let’s just do this,” I say with resignation.

“Okay. Walk slowly to your body and touch it in such a way that I can clearly see it. Don’t Split, or I will shoot you.”

If ‘Split’ is what I think it is—as in phasing into the Quiet—then how would he be able to tell if I did do it? Though it seems unlikely, I decide not to push my luck. Not until I know the results of his tests.

“I’m ready,” I say, and demonstratively touch my frozen self on the forehead.