She studied the glass case, working her phone with her thumbs. “I’ll take the rabbit,” she said finally.

It came wrapped in brown paper tied with white cotton string. “Don’t overcook it,” the young butcher instructed. “Herbes de Provence and radicchio, or blueberries and coriander give it a nice flavor.”

Dr. Conway texted back right away.

I have what you need. Something new, from Corfu!

The firewood man was fantastic. Wendy’s U-Haul was now full of nicely split firewood, two old doors, and a dismantled picnic table. She had no idea if it was even legal to burn such large items in one’s garden in Brooklyn, but what was the worst thing that could happen? If a neighbor called and complained, Wendy would simply invite them to the party. The more the merrier.

Next on her agenda: fireworks. Much to her frustration, she’d been unable to find any online, even on the “dark web” sites that sold hand grenades and Tasers that Manfred and Gabby had sent her links to. Her name was probably on a watch list now. The FBI, CIA, KGB, and MI5 had probably staked out her office. News of it would trickle back to Lucy Fleur and Wendy would be banned from the building.

Pulled over in the U-Haul in Staten Island, she googled “buy fireworks near my current location.” A single address appeared.

She hadn’t realized how rural parts of Staten Island were. Growing up on the Upper East Side, she’d snobbishly thought of it as a network of landfills and ugly, close-together houses with vinyl siding, but it wasn’t nearly that bad. Winding her way to the fireworks salesperson, she passed pretty brick houses with tree-lined driveways, a horse farm, an apple orchard, and lots of signs to the beach.

The U-Haul bumped down a weedy dirt road.

“Your destination is on your right.”

The structure was more of a temporary shelter than a house or storefront. Cinder blocks on the bottom, metal roofing for sides, and clear plastic sheeting for a roof. The word FIREWORKS was painted in red on an old piece of plywood.

Wendy pulled over and stepped down from the van.

“Hello?” she called out. “Hello?”

A person emerged. He was fortyish and unkempt and carried a shotgun. Only then did it occur to her that she should not have come alone. No one knew where she was. Her phone probably didn’t even have service.

“Police? Press? FBI?” the man demanded. The words SEE YOU IN HELL… were tattooed in neat calligraphy along his collarbone. He wasn’t pointing the shotgun at her, but it was in his hand. He held it casually, like a lit cigarette he was tired of smoking. “How’d you find me?”

“Google,” Wendy explained. “I’d like to buy your fireworks. Whatever you have, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t put anything on Google.”