The barbecue was a write-off. We haven’t bothered to get a new one yet. I’ve read even more stories about the transformation food undergoes when you barbecue it, the cancer risks, health issues. I don’t think you can afford to ignore that kind of thing. I was eating too much red meat, anyway. I’ve taken a lot more interest lately in eating healthily.

Our insurance company is making noises about dropping us.

Sarah’s editors asked me to write them an exclusive about finding the killer of Jesse Shuttleworth. Plus, they had an opening for a feature writer, and I jumped at it. Like I’d told Sarah, if we were back into a mortgage, we’d need two steady incomes. They also offered me a chance to write a monthly column in the book pages on new SF releases; I said I’d like to review all sorts of books, and they weren’t too excited about that, given my nonliterary background.

We learned, upon house-hunting in our old neighborhood, that Mrs. Hayden, who’d lived just down from us on Crandall, and who liked to point out the paper’s misdeeds to Sarah whenever they ran into each other, had recently passed away. We felt badly that we hadn’t been informed. She was a sweet old lady, and we would like to have paid our respects at her funeral.

As it turned out, her children put the house up for sale. We had always admired it. A porch out front, beautifully carved railings, separate garage tucked around back. No gaping door out front big enough to accommodate a Winnebago.

We put in an offer.

Our real estate agent suggested going in with something $15,000 under what they were asking, and Sarah and I conferred quietly, and came back and said we wanted to offer $10,000 more. The agent wrote it up.

And there’s the business of Earl, or Devlin Smythe, as I always think of him now. He didn’t make it to Emerg alive. His head, police told us, was a burnt marshmallow.