“Apparently not,” I said, rolling my shoulders back and forcing my expression to sober as I turned to Kelly and said, “Doc, we are fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of Miss Magdalene Grace Garcia.”

“Please don’t steal the silver,” added Becks.

Kelly’s mouth dropped open.

If Kelly’s family was responsible for many of the medical advancements of the past twenty-five years, it was Maggie’s family who made sure they had the equipment they needed to keep moving forward. Her parents were heavily into software before the Rising; their company had already made millions when the dead began to walk. They were savvy people, and they saw the writing on the wall: Either everybody was about to die, in which case money had just become an outdated concept, or we were going to beat back the infected, and folks were going to get real concerned about their health. They managed to shift most of their financial capital into medical technology before the markets froze. They didn’t make millions. They made billions, and that was after taxes.

They weren’t only heavily into software: They were also heavily into philanthropy, and their contributions were a large part of what made saving Weed possible. Of course, that left them owning a controlling share in two of the town’s four major fisheries, as well as most of the hospital. We’re talking about the kind of people for whom a thousand dollars is a perfectly reasonable price for a bottle of wine. When Maggie turned twenty-one, they asked her what she wanted, said that the sky was the limit, nothing was too good for their precious little girl.

She asked for the farmhouse that belonged to her grandparents, a military-grade security system, a private T1 line, and permanent access to the interest generated by her trust fund. Nothing else. And her folks, being the sort of people who try to keep their word, agreed. We might have been safer in an underground CDC bunker. Maybe. If it was protected by ninjas or something.

“But…” Kelly said finally. “Shouldn’t she be doing something, I don’t know, important with herself?”

“She is,” I said, and smiled. “She hosts grindhouse film festivals and writes for me. Come on. Last one to the table has to do the dishes.” I started for the door, skirting a wide circle around Alaric and Maggie. Kelly followed me, still looking confused, and Becks came after her. She left the front door standing open. The privileges of security are many, and not always visible.