“Before Christmas, but not much before. I remember, because I still hadn’t found anything for Jerome, and I was starting to get worried. I saw a nice sport coat in Banana Republic, but it was way expensive, and besides, he’s going to be building houses until May. You don’t have much reason to wear a sport coat when you’re doing that, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, this man came up to us while Hilda and I were having lunch. We’re not supposed to talk to strangers, but it’s not like we’re little kids anymore, and besides, it was in the food court with people all around. Also, he looked nice.”

The worst ones usually do, Holly thinks.

“He was wearing a terrific suit that must have cost mucho megabucks and carrying a briefcase. He said his name was Myron Zakim and he worked for a company called Sunrise Solutions. He gave us his card. He showed us a couple of Zappits—his briefcase was full of them—and said we could each have one free if we’d fill out a questionnaire and send it back. The address was on the questionnaire. It was on the card, too.”

“Do you happen to remember the address?”

“No, and I threw his card away. Besides, it was only a box number.”

“In New York?”

Barbara thinks it over. “No. Here in the city.”

“So you took the Zappits.”

“Yes. I didn’t tell Mom, because she would have given me a big lecture about talking to that guy. I filled out the questionnaire, too, and sent it in. Hilda didn’t, because her Zappit didn’t work. It just gave out a single blue flash and went dead. So she threw it away. I remember her saying that’s all you could expect when someone said something was free.” Barbara giggles. “She sounded just like her mother.”

“But yours did work.”

“Yes. It was old-fashioned but kind of . . . you know, kind of fun, in a silly way. At first. I wish mine had been broken, then I wouldn’t have the voice.” Her eyes slip closed, then slowly reopen. She smiles. “Whoa! Feel like I might be floating away.”

“Don’t float away yet. Can you describe the man?”

“A white guy with white hair. He was old.”

“Old-old, or just a little bit old?”

Barbara’s eyes are growing glassy. “Older than Dad, not as old as Grampa.”

“Sixtyish? Sixty-fiveish?”

“Yeah, I guess. Bill’s age, more or less.” Her eyes suddenly spring wide open. “Oh, guess what? I remember something. I thought it was a little weird, and so did Hilda.”

“What was that?”

“He said his name was Myron Zakim, and his card said Myron Zakim, but there were initials on his briefcase that were different.”

“Can you remember what they were?”

“No . . . sorry . . .” She’s floating away, all right.