Damita extends a hand with nails painted pink like bubble gum, each rimmed with a ridge of crusty silver glitter. Shane takes it delicately and, like a gentleman, kisses her hand. Atlanta notices his own hand is trembling.

Atlanta says, “I met Shane a few months ago—”

But then Shane interrupts, blurting out one rapid-fire question, “Hey-do-you-ever-watch-that-show-Sherlock-it’s-on-PBS-but-it-comes-from-the-Beeb-uh-the-BBC-and-it’s-pretty-awesome-so?”

And there pops the balloon. Except it’s not even a dramatic pop—more like the knot comes undone and the balloon flutters and flubbers around the room, gassy hiss as the air leaves and the balloon dies.

Damita says, “I freakin’ love that show! Holy crap, Moriarty! Right?”

Which is not what Atlanta expects to hear. Suddenly the balloon is buoyant and bobbing once more.

“Well, okay, then,” Atlanta says, offering a smile. She hops up, pats the chair. “Damita, you can take my seat.” The girl sits. And suddenly Damita and Shane are talking about Sherlock Holmes.

People are weird, Atlanta thinks. Everybody’s someone different than you suspect. Guy likes country decor. Damita likes Sherlock Holmes. Chris liked comic books (though now he doesn’t like much of anything, does he?).

Chris.

Chris.

He should be here.

I miss you.

The gravity of sadness pulls at her insides.

Deep breath. For a moment the voices around her fall to background noise—a bubbling murmur, a hiss of static on a broken radio, and all she hears is the snap-crackle-pop of the logs on the fire, and then next thing she knows she’s standing next to Guy.

“Gimme something from inside the bag,” she says. Time to break this piñata.

“You sure? You got a big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

He hesitates. “Atlanta, maybe it’s not such a good idea—”

“I said gimme something. Something to keep me going. I don’t want to sleep tonight. Got any Adderall?”

“Nah, but the Ritalin will do you right.”

She holds out her hand. He fishes out a classic capsule—tan on one half, white on the other—and gives it to her. Into the mouth and then she rescues the vodka from Chomp-Chomp’s feet and—

Down the hatch. She feels it crawl down her esophagus, sliding on the breathy vodka burn.

“I’m gonna go inside, get some chips,” she says. The dog starts to get up and she says, “You sleep. Big day tomorrow, Whitey.”

Whitey’s cement-block head thumps against the earth and he commences snoozing.

The kitchen is dark. She doesn’t bother turning on the light. She doesn’t even try to find a bag of chips. Instead Atlanta plants her hands on the counter and stares at the window, which is a square of darkness brighter than all the darkness around her. Speckled stars sit in the sky above. The Cat Lady’s house is a distant square with pinpricks of golden light—it’s midnight and the old woman is awake. She’s always awake, that one.