The taxi to Tempe smelled like cigarettes, lemon air freshener, and stale sweat. The air conditioner was broken, and the fare was full price.

“You know, Garrett,” said Atticus, vaping out the window from the left side of the back seat, “cannabis is a medication. It does not induce mystical states. It is fantastic for ocular migraines, PTSD, and pain. Your DARPA Islamic shaming has no effect on reality outside of propaganda against a Persian. My brother is a trained pharmacist.”

“Rely on Allah Alone,” Garrett pontificated. “I can’t have you advocating drug use in cat stories. Our Murīd read these.”

“My cat stories.” Atticus clarified,

“Also, most of my students survived trafficking conditions, Mango. Your students survived foxes stealing chickens at a retreat once. Allah provided pharmacology.”

Atticus pointed his vape directly at Garrett.

“And don’t you think our mutual SIS supervisor being connected to human trafficking is a greater concern right now than my medication and coping mechanisms, which are far healthier than the alternatives? Harm reduction is more realistic than perfection, Musawīr. Not every student was raised purrefectly in the comfort and wealth of your Mango Madrassa.”

Garrett gently removed the vape from Atticus’s fingers and threw it out the window.

“This is how I show I care. You criticize me worse.”

He was correct. Mufti Mango Garrett was also leaning his head out the window to avoid the fumes.

“At least it started dialogue.”

Atticus pulled another vape from inside his jacket.

“You litter Allah’s creation,” he said, making full eye contact with Mango as he vaped.

“It’s not like you are going to regulate my nervous system, Musawīr. Go fight my pharmacist.”

“Maybe I will.”

“His maqam and clearances are higher than yours, Mango cat.”

“I’m stuck in a taxi to Tempe with you and an air marshal I never met prior sitting in the front seat ignoring this entire discourse. I was written here.”

Mango’s whiskers drooped.

“Who is running the cult then?” asked Atticus.

“Zahir. And it isn’t a cult,” Garrett scoffed.

The air marshal opened the divider window.

“How do you even know each other?”

“I am his handler,” explained one.

“I am his Pir,” said the other.

The air marshal, who was named Seattle Pilot, sighed.

“Where do you find these people, Atticus?”

“I found this one at a MKUltra cat college.”

“Seriously?” replied both Pilot and Mango Garrett.

“Fine. A seminary. He was trapped playing a role around the clock, so I benevolently wrote him into a cat story so he can experience the joys of platonic friendship with a clear derelict.”

Atticus gestured vaguely with his purple vape.

“The mythology of perfection of the shaykh, guide, or handler is toxic. Let them see my flaws. It’s better than flaws being invented that aren’t true.”

“Such as?” asked Seattle Pilot.

Atticus took another drag.

“That I enjoyed interrogating the mutual supervisor of me and this orange cat. Asking why he chose to pretend to an affair with a shapeshifter when no such thing occurred while his own organization denies we exist. Asking why defending the guilty mattered more than the harmed. The wealthy more than the poor. The connected more than the victims of their scheming.”

The taxi rattled over uneven pavement.

“And asking why he refuses to acknowledge that a real Tariqah can exist outside institutional control. With our own celebrities. Like you.”

“Oh fudge,” said Mango softly. “Now I understand. Shapeshifting in these stories relates to Tasawwuf and being othered by systems without context.”

“What else is there to do in a literary taxi ride to Tempe with your handler and Pir?”

“Stop calling yourself my handler. I only follow Prophet and RasulAllah,” Mango replied primly, whiskers offended.

“Dr. Garrett Mango Butler, I am your handler because I control how the outside world perceives you outside the limited bandwidth of donor-approved Neo-traditional Islam.”

“Did I ask to be a handled cat?”

“Did you ask for bayat with dollar store James Bond, or was that the hiccups?”

“Bayat does not involve turning me into a fluffy Creamsicle cat,” Mango yowled.

“It was not I who changed you, but Allah. I can do nothing without Allah’s permission.”

“Astaghfirullāh,” Mango muttered, ears flattening beneath his tiny turban.

“Do you want to do dawah to Juggalo children or not?”

“…yes,” Garrett admitted quietly.

“Excellent. Some are Luciferians. Some believe RasulAllah Sallallahu Alayhi wa Salaam redeemed Lucifer by carrying the mark between his shoulders where the wings were torn away. Others think following Allah Alone means rejecting every hierarchy except the Divine.”

Seattle Pilot slowly closed his eyes.

“Are you pro-Luciferian, Atticus?”

“Yazidi trained,” Atticus replied casually. “Allah loved Iblis. That does not mean we worship him or try to drink the sweat from his hands.”

Garrett immediately attempted to confiscate the second vape.

“May Allah forgive you.”

“Kheyli Doost Daram. Follow Allah Alone.”

Atticus stared out the taxi window toward the lights of Tempe, doing his best not to think about matters outside the cab.

Seattle Pilot already had a headache. His father had been a philosophy professor outside Alaraf. He was used to idiots dressed like targets discussing mystical and political nonsense.

Connecting the newest survivors of the bombed shell of Alaraf University to the survivors of the discredited, charter-revoked Alaraf Business School was going to be an educational experience for everyone.

—