“I’m not worried,” Declan said, giving every indication of someone who was worried. Compressing his lips into an inverted line, he redirected his gaze somewhere past me to the window. “It’ll work. Or it won’t. In the meantime, I get to enjoy Beau and all his cheerful curiosity, and Aurora and all her . . .” He paused in a diplomatic search for the right word. “. . . sparkly sass.”

“Sparkly sass?”

“Well, but you’re supposed to be hostile when you’re a teenager, yeah? All those adults trying to boss you when you already know everything? But actually, Kiki, she’s been only sweet whenever you’re not around.” At this, he managed a grin at my expense, and I couldn’t help smiling back; what woman can resist someone who loves her children? “I’m not claiming to be an expert or anything,” Declan went on, “but I think that kind of feistiness is a normal reaction to parenting.”

Time for a change of subject. “Well, enjoy your weekend with the sass. On a different note—any chance you know anybody in the public health system in Morocco? I’m hearing about an unusual illness.”

“I don’t,” he said. “What kind of illness? Is it safe to travel there?”

“As far as I know,” I assured him. “No travel advisories. Wally’s got his antennae up about something. If it’s real, I’ll run it up the flagpole, but it sounds vague. Maybe a viral outbreak, maybe nothing. Wally’s the kind of guy who sees every death as a potential pandemic.”

Declan cast a thoughtful look in my direction. “What kind of symptoms?”

“Wally said flu-like,” I hedged. “At least one young guy. I don’t know what the other reports were.”

“Hmm,” Declan said.

“It’s nothing, most likely.”

“In my experience,” said Declan, “when someone keeps saying ‘it’s nothing,’ that’s a good indication that it is actually something.”

I reached for him. “Kind of like saying ‘I’m not worried,’ maybe?”

Declan bent his head, touching his forehead to mine. “I’m scared shitless, actually.”

We stood for a moment, silent. Offering false platitudes is not my strong suit, so I didn’t tell him it would be fine, that the drug would work, that he wouldn’t lose his business and all his years of effort. Like many potential treatments, it was more likely to be a bust than not, and both of us knew it. Still, he seemed to derive some comfort from my presence; his hand gripped the back of my head and his breathing slowed. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For not saying anything stupid.”

I moved my face slightly, aware of the commingling of our breaths. We’d reached such a weird limbo in our friendship; me surreptitiously hoping we’d hook up again and him surreptitiously hoping—what? That I’d finally banish the ghost in our relationship and rekindle things with him?