A little after four o’clock they were at poolside in bathing suits and short-sleeved shirts, a half-finished brunch congealing on their plates. In the lengthening shadow of the hotel’s main tower, he was signing autographs for mommies and kids, their voices drowned by the scream of private jets angling down toward the airport. The line of autograph seekers extended fifteen feet. On the other side of the table, Amy had turned her chair around to catch the sun. Her eyes were closed, so people thought she was asleep and left her alone.

Merrill was doing what he had been told: sign the autographs, smile, look people in the eye, show interest. Make it personal. Because he was a official gov-mint hero, there was nothing he could really do but submit. He knew Amy was thinking that anyone should be able to see that they were trying to unwind. They hadn’t even been able to get food in their bellies. Around someone they recognized from television, many people acted as if they had never heard of a code of personal behavior. He had already found out that some people didn’t care if they found him standing up to a urinal. That the line here at the table was shortening quickly was doing nothing for Amy’s fuse, even if he was the only one able to see the symptoms, a certain hardening around the corners of her mouth.

Finally only one woman remained waiting as a white DH-125 slid across their field of vision toward the runway, low enough to let Merrill see the rivets in the fuselage, so loud the surface of the coffee in his cup quivered. Amy lifted her head and looked around irritably. He asked himself what did a plane like that cost? He realized he had been seeing so much money lately he was ready to believe he had some of his own.

Merrill signed a menu the last woman had thrust under his nose.

“You didn’t finish your brunch.”

“We weren’t hungry.”

Amy sat up. It was like watching the menu crumple into dust, as he saw her eyes burning a hole in his skull. He was remembering that he had thought they had awakened too late to order breakfast in their room. The manager had told him, “If there is anything we can do, just ask.” Merrill should have asked for breakfast delivered to the room. They didn’t have to put themselves at the beck and call of the public. This time was for them anyway, even if they were already feeling better.

“Make it ‘For Benny and Al,’” the woman said.

He had remembered to leave space above his name.

“Can you make it personal?” the woman asked.

“Yes, of course. Just tell me how.”

Amy stuck out a corner of her lower lip to blow a wisp of her blond hair back into place. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.