Diederik looked vastly relieved. As he passed Fiji, he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was breaking.

“What the hell,” Olivia said, very quietly. “I hadn’t gotten past the ‘frozen’ yet. And now we have a teenager instead of a little boy. What the hell.”

“I don’t know why he’s growing so fast,” Fiji said, quietly. She leaned forward. “The Rev isn’t saying anything. I don’t know if he expected this or not. Or maybe the dad left Diederik here because he knew what was going to happen?” She rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, the last thing we need is anyone’s eyes on Midnight.”

The bell over the door chimed. One of the old men from the hotel came in, a wizened man who was God knows how far up in years. He carried a cane, he was slightly bent, and he had wispy white hair protruding at all angles from under his straw hat. Manfred had seen him on the sidewalk outside the hotel, walking very slowly. He recognized the hat and the hair.

“Lady, is that your boy?” he asked Fiji, in a very hoarse voice.

“Why do you want to know?” Fiji said, standing up, in as polite a tone as anyone had ever asked a rude question.

“He’s growing all over the place! You better put a weight on his head! Someone’s gonna call the TV stations.”

Manfred said, “Are you the only one at the hotel who’s noticed?” He could tell from the expressions on the faces of Olivia and Fiji that they were as astonished—and wary—as he was. None of them had spoken to any of the hotel residents. Manfred had thought, They’re only in Midnight temporarily, and he hadn’t put himself out to speak to any of the old people the few times he’d encountered them.

“Hell, no!” the old man huffed in his hoarse, wheezy tone. “We all have. We ain’t dead. We’re old. We got nothing to do but watch. You understand me?”

“We understand you,” Olivia said.

“Can I have one of them cookies?” He hobbled closer to the table, and Manfred stood to offer him the chair. “Thanks, sonny, don’t mind sitting for a minute.” He backed up to the chair and lowered himself into it.

“Please have one,” Fiji said. “And some tea.” She fetched another glass and handed the old man a cookie on a napkin.

It was not pleasant to watch the old man eat the cookie, though he seemed to enjoy it a lot. “We’re always getting healthy shit for breakfast, oatmeal and egg whites,” he said, spraying a few crumbs. “Makes you want something with a lot of sugar and fat in it.”

“I’m Fiji Cavanaugh. I made those, and I’m glad you like them.”