I choose to keep the token pure. I bite my tongue and do not break the spell. Instead I say, “I love you, Son.”

He is part child, part man—part alien, part me—when he says, “Thanks. I love you too.”

ONE MONTH LATER

36.

“Is that it?” I yell.

Simone pops her head around the corner. “That’s it,” she confirms. “Last one.”

“All right. I’m making a run for it.”

“Come up here before you leave, okay?”

I change out of my lab coat and walk back down the hall to Simone’s desk, meticulously organized and freshly adorned with a fishbowl full of glass flowers. She has been a gem ever since I decided to give her a raise. Fifty percent and an extra week’s vacation. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they say—and while Simone is hardly an enemy, she could’ve become one if I’d allowed it. I won’t allow it. Instead I’ll keep her in-the-know, an accessory to anything she could ever criticize, and I’ll make sure she’s happy.

“Now don’t be weird about it,” she tells me, guarding her laptop screen. “Have an open mind. I swear there’s no subtext. This artist is hot. A good investment. I think it’s perfect.”

She rotates her computer to reveal a thoughtfully photographed piece of Mexican folk art from a gallery in the city. On a frame of intricately tooled sheets of tin, two panels are opened like church doors on tiny hinges, revealing a mirror inside. Above it all floats a sculpted tin heart crowned in flames. On either side stands a painted tin figure: a pair of skeletons—one wearing a tuxedo, one in a wedding dress—flashing full sets of teeth etched into a smile without flesh.

“They’re the Día de los Muertos bride and groom,” Simone points out. “Sugar skulls. You can use it as a mirror, or close the doors and it’s a standalone sculpture. It’s functional. It’s beautiful, timeless, playful, romantic, and—it’s aluminum.” Her cockiness is well earned.

I pull my wallet from my pocket. “Simone, it’s perfect.” She takes my credit card. By Monday morning, the wrapped gift and a lovely note will be waiting for me on my desk. All I’ll need to do is sign my name. “Buy yourself a nice lunch on that while you’re at it,” I say. “Have them call me if they give you any trouble.”

She smiles and says, “Will do.”

•  •  •

Elizabeth is painting her face when I get home. She’s leaning over the bathroom counter, wearing only a strapless bra and a slip that starts at her waist. In front of her is a crystal tumbler marked with bright pink lipstick kisses.

“Has it been thirty days already?” I ask.

She nods.

“And?”

“Eh.” She dusts her cheekbones with gold powder. “Same old vodka.”