Nevertheless, Rita responded with a gratifying circus of concern, shooing away Cody and Astor and getting me an ice pack, a comforter, and a cup of tea before flinging herself down beside me on the couch and demanding to know what had happened to my poor dear head. I filled her in on all the dreadful details —leaving out one or two things with no real relevance, like what I had been doing at a house that blew up in an attempt to kill me —and as I spoke, I watched with dismay as her eyes got big and moist, until they began to overflow and tears ran down her cheeks and across her face. It was really quite flattering to think that minor damage to my skull could cause such a display of hydrotechnics, but at the same time it left me slightly uneasy about what my response ought to be.

Luckily for my reputation as a method actor, Rita left me in no doubt at all about how I should behave. “You stay right here and rest” she said. “Quiet and rest when you get a bump on the head like that. I'm going to make you some soup.” I had not known that soup was good for concussions, but Rita seemed very sure about it, and with a few gentle strokes on my face and a light kiss near the bump she was off the couch and into the kitchen, where she immediately began a muted clatter that very soon smelled like garlic, onion, and then chicken, and I drifted into a state of half-sleep where even the faint throbbing of my head seemed distant, cozy and almost pleasant. I wondered if Rita would bring me soup if I was arrested. I wondered if Weiss had anyone to bring him soup. I hoped not —I was starting to dislike him, and he certainly didn't deserve soup.

Astor suddenly appeared beside the couch, interrupting my reverie. “Mom says you got hit on the head” she said.

“Yes, that's right” I said.

“Can I see it?” she asked, and I was so deeply touched by her concern that I bowed my head to reveal the lump and the matted hair around it where it had bled. “It doesn't look so bad” she said, sounding a little disappointed.

“It isn't” I told her.

“So you're not going to die, are you?” she asked politely.

“Not yet” I said. “Not until after you do your homework.” She nodded, glanced toward the kitchen, and said, I hate math.” Then she wandered away down the hall, presumably to hate her math at closer range.