Crabtree, ever the clever dog, must have sensed our shock and took the opportunity to lurch forward, his leash flying out of Wallis’s hands, and head straight at the scrum like a ball to pins.

We watched in horror as Melinda Darley paused; the reporters lowered their pencils. The dog vanished, again, along with the echoes of his jangling collar tags, and all eyes turned to us, cowering above the remains of a Civil War soldier.

“Daisy?” said Atlas.

I stood, brushed off my knees, as he approached, clearly confused. “Hi,” I said, like this was all perfectly normal. I’d hoped my aforementioned space from Atlas would have given my feelings of mortification post-kiss time to diminish. I’d been wrong.

“Hello,” he replied. He seemed happy to see me, in spite of my recent history of dodging him. “Was that a dog I just saw, or a heat-seeking missile?”

Wallis’s eyes were on Melinda Darley. “I don’t know what to do,” she said quietly, chewing her lip, and I wasn’t sure if she meant about the dog or the senator.

A pair of sunglasses was hanging from the top button of Atlas’s shirt, and I saw myself in their reflection. Inside I was shaking, but at least outwardly I looked calm. This image gave me confidence, and I did a decent job explaining to Atlas why we were there. When I asked the same of him, he gestured toward Melinda, who was now partially blocked by the crowd. “I’m profiling that gang in the Senate that calls itself ‘the outlaws.’ It’s a fast turnaround, unlike some other work.” He glanced at me, and I realized he meant the story about my father. “But it will make me some good money. I do have a mouth to feed.” Then, as though I didn’t get the joke, he added, “Mine. My mouth. I mean, me.”

“She’s letting you profile her?” asked Wallis, still in a daze. “Can you...introduce me?”

“Well, she’s not giving me any special access,” Atlas said. “But she can’t prevent me from following her around, can she?” He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I’m not so much interested in writing stories about heroes. Frankly, they’re never that interesting.”

I thought of the wedding, of Atlas’s breath, my name on his lips: Daisy. I had hoped this word, in his mouth, would’ve sounded like homecoming. Instead, it had sounded like an ending. “I know you prefer villains,” I said quietly, unable to stop myself. “Isn’t that why you’re writing about our father, too?”

He had no answer for this. Wallis suddenly grabbed my hand. “I’m doing it,” she said. “I’m saying hello.”

She strode off into the crowd around Blake’s mother, leaving me and Atlas by ourselves. Godspeed.