NOVEMBER 28, 1934
HE MUST’VE HEARD ME carving into his door. He opened it when I was only halfway finished. He looked at it. “You spelled ‘race traitor’ wrong,” he commented with aplomb.
I shrugged. “I sort of thought I was an intellectual in pre-unlife, but maybe not.”
“Maybe a pseudo-intellectual,” Skaron said.
I waited. It would’ve been two—maybe three—heartbeats. I couldn’t really count things that way anymore. But it would’ve been. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“You’re not a vampire,” he said. “You can come in if you like.”
I stared at him. Must’ve been some obscure scholastic bit he had dug up. He gestured expansively with his hand, so I entered his apartment.
“You, ah, left this at my office,” I said, holding out the penknife.
He took it. “Yes, I didn’t think it would
