Rovia. Not Whitly. There’s an odd relief in that. Neal finally relaxes, or at least settles back into the facade of relaxation, tucking his doll foot into his pocket and gesturing at the rest of the open bench. “Just over a year now.”

Strange to say it out loud to someone new. “You don’t seem particularly fazed by the idea of killer dolls or supernatural weirdness. It seems like it’s about fifty-fifty, people who have dealt with this kind of thing back home and those who haven’t.”