“We don’t categorize by weight because it fluctuates and people lie and we don’t want to be held to anything. Plus, we’re not running a meat market.”

I said, “More like a gourmet deli.”

Both sisters stared. Broke into simultaneous smiles as if a cluster of shared neurons had fired.

“I like that,” said Suki. “Maybe we can figure out a way to work it into our promo.”

“Gourmet deli,” said Rosalynn. “It’s a little overtly oral, but yeah, maybe some variant would work—the haute cuisine of romance.”

“We could do the slow-food angle, Rosie. Look at the ratings chef shows pull in.”

“Gourmet deli … food … for the soul.”

“Sublime nourishment for body and soul.”

“Satisfaction for body, mind, and soul.”

“Encompassing the entire realm of the senses.”

Milo said, “How about nourishing some curiosity?”

“Tell you what,” said Suki. “We’ll check with Brian.”

“Fine, we’ll wait.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” said Rosalynn. “These kinds of decisions can’t be made impulsively.”

Her sister said, “Brian’s the last person you’d call impulsive.”

“Aw c’mon, girls,” said Milo.

“You’re so sweet,” said Suki. “But I’m so, so sorry, we can’t. In the end it’s in your best interests, as well. Well-organized decisions work out better for all concerned.”

“Infinitely better,” said her sister.

She followed us out of the suite.

Milo said, “Call as soon as you’ve talked to Brian.”

“You bet. And if you know someone who’d profit from our services, be sure to clue them in. We really are the best.”

Chapter 12

had Stengel said, “Mommy’s going to die.”

It was four p.m. and he’d been home from school long enough to have a snack and watch a couple of videos.

We were in his room, a sky-blue alternate universe filled with books, toys, costumes, art supplies. When I arrived he was sitting next to Gretchen in the living room, pretending not to notice as she introduced us. Before she finished, he left.

She said, “Has a mind of his own.” Smile. Cough. “I know what you’re thinking, big mystery where that came from.”

I smiled back. But she was right.

When I entered the room, he was lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

I said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

I sat down cross-legged on the floor. He blinked. “You’ll get dirty.”

“Should I sit somewhere else?”

He pointed to a chair lettered Chad on the splat in gold script.

“Do you know who I am, Chad?”

“A doctor.”

“I’m a psychologist, the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots—”

“We s’posed to talk about feelings.”

“Mommy told you that?”

“Aunt Bunny.”

“What else did Aunt Bunny tell you?”

“Mommy’s afraid to talk.”

“About what?”

“She’s going to die.”