I checked the time on the microwave, ignoring my Frizz City hair in the door's reflection. Zach had to be at Morristown High in twenty-five minutes, and Karen needed to be standing at her bus stop, oh, now.

"What's the story with these Algebra worksheets?" I asked, picking a stapled packet off the couch.

"All me." Zach grabbed took the packet from my hand in stride and stuffed it in his backpack. "Finished last night, I was just looking for it."

I snatched my keys from the new hallway organizer and started for the door. I had one hand on the knob when I noticed Karen's new jacket on the coat rack—the one we'd just picked out together from the outlets.

"Pooh Bear," I said, "you're going to need your jacket at morning recess."

I almost added, And for waiting for the bus, but at this point I didn't think there'd be a wait. In fact, she might have to chase it down the block.

Karen, falling in next to her brother at the door, asked, "Is it okay if I just wear this again?"

She was wearing the canary yellow sweater that'd been her favorite before the Anarchy. It had a grape juice stain on one side, and she'd outgrown the sleeves, which showed the nubs of her wrists.

"You don't wanna wear your new one, the purple? With that cute fringe on the collar?"

She shook her head no, staring at the floor. There was a whole dynamic to unpack here about routine and security and object transference, but this wasn't the time for shoehorning my psychology training into a wardrobe issue.

"Sure, Pooh Bear," I said. "It's perfectly okay to wear the sweater instead."

With that, we zoomed out the door. I'd packed Karen a PB&J before she woke up; Zach was buying hot from the cafeteria; and both kids had filled and remembered their water bottles.

While Zach squeezed his five-nine-and-bigger-everyday frame into the passenger seat of the Prius, I trotted Karen to the corner. The school bus eased to a stop just as we reached the curb. The driver smiled unfolding the accordion doors and pretended to doff his hat, butler style.

There was more of this now—camaraderie, the savoring of small, pleasant encounters. Parents are a beaten-down subspecies of Man, but I feel like we were all fresher post-Anarchy. There was a communal feeling that yeah, it's a grind, but remember how much worse it used to be—when every public diaper-change station had been stripped bare of materials, and driving meant surrendering your own and your family's lives to the whims of fate?

I ran Zach over to Morristown High next. He was adjusting well there. He liked his American History teacher, a woman he described as "really loud" who wore skirts with sneakers and apparently turned everything they'd learned in middle school on its head.

Naturally, he thought he deserved more freedom.

"Do we hafta have a sitter today?" he asked now.

"You most certainly do," I said. "Piper will pick you up from school like yesterday."

"But that's lame! Why can't Reggie take me home? Reggie could totally—"

"Reggie is sixteen years old. I don't care what the state of New Jersey says about learners' permits and what age kids are allowed to drive to school. You will not ride in a car driven by Reggie."

Zach rolled his eyes but gave up the argument.

His resistance had limits now. We'd had a blowout confrontation after Paris about the drug use Quaid had observed while I was in the oubliette. I expected him to deny it or swear up and down the stuff belonged to his friends, but he didn't. He accepted my punishment without complaint.

I wanted to believe this new Zach was the result of personal growth, that he'd acquired a greater appreciation for rules and their importance in the wake of society's breakdown. I worried, though, that he'd simply been been scared straight hearing the details of my captivity—that he understand more fully that his mother was a real person who could be hurt. Who would die one day. Which was an awful lesson for a teenager to learn—almost awful enough for me to want the old Zach back.

Almost.

Zach hopped out at the high school's circle drive. Pulling away, I called Piper to confirm she was available this afternoon.

"Yup, I'll be there," she said. "You got stroganoff leftovers?"

"Not a ton," I said, "but the kids didn't love it so whatever's there is yours."

"Their loss."

Piper was babysitting for me while she decided what she wanted to do for a career. All the Big Tech firms had offered her positions in the crush of post-data antidote publicity, but she didn't relish working for some faceless corporation. Public advocacy was another possibility, but she hadn't exactly excelled so far as a talking head—scoffing at Oprah's oversimplified explanation of the Anarchy, telling a Senate committee, "None of y'all have the chops to understand this, so why don't we just bag it?" She had refused, during her testimony, to say a word against Josiah, who'd become a co-scapecoat with Rivard LLC in the American press. Commentators attributed her loyalty to Stockholm syndrome.

The Mouse making the biggest waves, in fact, was Hatch. He'd signed on for a reality TV show—Hatching Insanity—and has spearheaded a resurgence of the Libertarian Party. People say he'll run for president.

Back home, after parking in the driveway, I dragged the freshly-emptied recycling bin around the side of the house. Then I tidied up inside. Even on good mornings, the kids leave behind a minor hurricane on their way out the door. Now I refolded a tried-on-and-discarded shirt (Karen), containerized a half-eaten bagel (Zach), and dealt with a sugar-bowl spill (could've been either, or the cat).

The place was nearly presentable when I heard a pair of shuffling footsteps upstairs.

Then I heard a second pair.

"What'n blazes are you doing here, you louse?" Granny's voice rang out.

I didn't hear the response.

Granny went on, "You say I saw you? Naw, I didn't. That's bunk."

As Quaid and Granny reached the midpoint of the stairs, I began picking up Quaid's words.

"You did, Eunice. We ate dinner together—and tasty it was. Beef stroganoff," he said. "You complained Moll didn't make any Pillsbury Grands, if I recall."

"Oh, that's right! Well why wouldn't you serve rolls with dinner?"

Quaid, from a lower step, talked up and over his shoulder. "Like Moll explained, you've already got your starch—the noodles. Seems unnecessary to go adding bread."

"But Grands are delicious!" Granny came into view, her face purple with indignation. "And a half-dozen tubes sitting in the fridge—Save-A-Lot just had 'em on sale..."

As the argument continued, Granny showed no signs of remembering her initial objection to Quaid's presence. Quaid took the final two steps in a single hop, then kissed my cheek and poured himself coffee. Granny sat at her traditional spot at the head of the table. I brought her orange juice and half a grapefruit.

I gestured at the sportcoat Quaid was wearing. "Leaving already?"

"And miss all this lovely banter?" he said. "I wouldn't dream of it."

From behind, he wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed me again—only this one was no mere peck, more of a something-starter. I felt warm streaks in my neck and my middle going wavy.

"You just missed the kiddos," I said. "Five minutes earlier and you could've helped me get them out the door."

"I did help," Quaid said. "I stayed far, far away."

I chuckled and faced him. I wasn't sure whose feet were moving, but the space between us closed, our bodies finding the other's hollows.

Granny took her grapefruit to eat in front of the TV.

We enjoyed each other's heat for a long moment.

"Well," Quaid said.

I exhaled. "Well."

"I had a text come in overnight from Tokyo—the Hazisaki Brothers, the ones with labs in the Mariana Trench? They're seeing irregularities and might require our services."

"Our services?" I said. "Does that mean I'm a full-fledged member of Third Chance Enterprises now?"

Quaid squinted down my body, pretending to size me up. "Credit where credit's due, McGill. You proved yourself on this Mice job, no question. It might be time to put your name on the business cards."

"You have business cards?"

"They're in the works. I'm talking to graphic designers."

"Exciting. Does Durwood approve of these cards?"

"I don't care if Durwood does or doesn't," Quaid snapped, then leaned his face close to mine. "Let's not saddle ourselves with thoughts of that unimaginative grumpster."

As his hands floated down my back, mine rose higher on his shoulder blades. I could smell his shaving cream and feel sweet excitement on his breath.

"I'll have to think about those cards," I said coyly. "McGill Investigators is picking up new cases every day. It's going to be tough squeezing a Tokyo trip into my schedule."

"But you speak Japanese."

"I do."

"We need you."

"So do my clients here."

Quaid cocked his brow. "You'd turn away the chance to be at the vanguard of deep sea exploration, the adventure of a lifetime, to go stake out cheating husbands?"

"I hadn't much more interesting cases than infidelity."

"Such as?"

I closed my eyes, not answering, and pressed into him. I felt Quaid's heart beating faster through the fabric of our shirts.

He continued in a rush, "It isn't a steady gig, Third Chance. We'd only get together, all three of us, when the world was in some mortal jeopardy."

My eyes stayed closed. A dreamy, careless expression took over my face. My lips only parted for an instant before Quaid's were hungrily upon them. We kissed and kissed and kissed.

When my eyes finally did open, he still seemed to be waiting for my answer.

I didn't give him one.

He said, "Also I was, uh...I was thinking of giving up the room at Caesars."

This unexpected nugget pierced my quiet game. "Really? Thinking of moving to a different resort?"

"No, not to a resort." He held my two hands in both of his, as though he were making some proposal. "I thought I'd try my luck out east. Back this way."

I probed his blue eyes for sincerity.

"But what'll happen to all those Blackjack dealers who 'depend on your magnanimous tips?'" I asked, quoting from our last breakup.

Quaid spluttered a non-answer.

"And let's not forget Crystal from the club." I took a half-step back. "The poor thing who can't find a thing to do with her Ohio State marketing degree besides exotic dancing?"

"I—er, a lot of this was said tongue in cheek," Quaid tried. "In my line of work, to be fair, it's often necessary to meet with oligarchs—and oligarchs as a rule conduct a lot of business in the presence of strippers."

"Mm-hm."

"Hey, those aren't my morals, that's just the reality of the playing field—"

I stopped his moving lips with another kiss. Leading with my chest, I pushed him back towards the stairs. Buttons were popping loose in my shirt. Half Quaid's belt jangled against his hip. Morning sun poured through the bay window.

My head was bobbing weightlessly—a quick, happy balloon. None of today's troubles mattered. Whether I stuck with McGill Investigators or chased Quaid's big scores, whether the blinds were dusty, whether Zach's obedience was temporary or Karen ever wore the purple jacket from the outlets: none of this upset me.

Because I could handle it all.

"Molly!"

Granny's cry from the living room interrupted my moment.

I squeezed my eyes. Hard. "Yes?"

"Cable just went out again," she called. "I lost my judge show—she was about to hand down the verdict!"

As I started away to quench Granny's thirst for superficial justice, I caught Quaid glancing at his loafers by the front door.

"Is there...someplace you need to be?" I asked him.

He smirked and planted his feet on the linoleum.

"Oh, I have plenty of places to be," he said. "But I'll wait until you're ready to come along."

"It could be awhile. Usually she's just hit Input Source on the remote by accident, but these problems have a way of snowballing."

"I know that." Quaid fixed a blond curlicue at his temple. "Just the same, I'll wait. That's a promise."

And so I headed for the living room feeling confident—reasonably confident—he wouldn't vanish into thin air.

—

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