The Blind Mice were known for their flippant virtuosity and total lack of reverence for one particular genre. Their songs were a tongue-in-cheek mixture of ska, punk rock, pop, and hip-hop, with a lot of New York City private schoolboy thrown in. All three Blind Mice had gone to Bay Ridge Country Day School, the only school in New York City with its own duck pond. The Mice’s songs ranged from the angry “I Hate My Art Teacher” and “Driver’s Ed,” to the sweetly romantic “My Girlfriend Wakes Up Pretty,” to the wildly danceable “Omnia Vincit!” in which the Mice shouted rhymes in grammatically correct Latin. The band used to get fan mail from Latin teachers and was featured in Romulus, a magazine devoted to ancient Rome. The cover was shot at the Coliseum. For the video, the Mice staged an entire concert with an audience of thousands all dressed in togas.

“What about your wife?” Peaches asked nosily. “She could comb through your hair.”

Stuart opened his eyes and then closed them again. “Mandy would help,” he said, “but she’s having a hard time right now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Peaches bit her lip, her curiosity blossoming. Had Mandy gotten hugely fat after the birth of their child? Was she depressed about how fat she’d gotten? Was she too heavily medicated to leave the house? Did they have to raise the ceilings and open up walls to accommodate her?

Stop it, Peaches scolded herself.

“She just got diagnosed with MS,” Stuart said. “A couple months ago. It’s already worse though.”

“Jeez. That stinks,” Peaches said. So Mandy was a brave martyr, boldly facing a debilitating disease. And she, Peaches Park, was an asshole.

Peaches drew the comb sideways from Stuart’s right temple to the crown of his head. A minuscule brown spec tottered out of the follicles in the parting and skittered off toward the nape of his neck. “Oh!” she cried. “I think I saw one!”

Stuart swiveled around in the chair, yanking his hair out of her hands. “Are you sure?” He shuddered involuntarily, horrified that there were actual bugs in his hair and embarrassed that she’d been the one to find them. “Oh God. What do I do? Should I call a lice lady?”

Peaches wrinkled her nose. “Nah. They all live in like, Brighton Beach, and you have to go to them. Plus, they’re expensive and mean.”

She smiled her beneficent nurse’s smile, the smile she’d practiced in the mirror until Liam gave it his “not too creepy” blessing. “Don’t worry, that’s what I’m here for. I’ll take care of them.” She picked up her purse and her denim jacket. “I just have to run to Key Food for conditioner. And I’ll need to call your son down. And maybe even your wife.”