After tucking the buggers into bed and kissing Frankie's 'owwie' a dozen times, Thomas kicked his legs up on the couch and watched an old Seinfeld on Nickelodeon. But he found it impossible to laugh. He browsed several personal channels, or 'perches' as they were called, as much to reassure himself of his sanity as anything else. A billion bewildered people, all pounding their fists in the simulacrum of certainty, each with their own peculiar menu of scapegoat cheese. Then he surfed the news-sites, flashing between commercial broadcasts that pandered to mainstream prejudices (information, like any other commodity, was primarily geared toward customer satisfaction) and cash-strapped PBS. Images flashed, and the living room gleamed, darkened, and changed color in three-dimensional counterpoint.

No matter how many times he flattened his palms across his thighs, he always caught himself wringing his hands.

Sam didn't call.

No mention, national or local, was made of Neil or his crimes. Thomas wasn't surprised. The Chiropractor had struck yet again, this time with a cryptic letter to the New York Times. Several senators crossed the aisle on the issue of gasoline subsidies. The Russian economy, teetering after the destruction of southern Moscow, seemed to be riding some kind of petrol yo-yo. Of course, there were more eco-riots in Europe—poor shivering bastards. And some 'good' news here and there: bumper crops in Texas, more miraculous rain in the Sahara, church attendance up worldwide.

The world ends here, begins there. But it was never, Thomas reflected, quite the same.

He heard a rattle in the kitchen, jerked his head up over the back of the couch. The kitchen was black. Pale blue danced across the walls. His heart hammered. He heard shifting. A click.

What the fuck?

Over the course of the day, his innumerable fears had roamed the baffles of whatever he happened to be doing. Now they focused on this one thing, became very intense. Heart hammering, he blinked, stared into the black maw of his kitchen, saw nothing. He knew, given the disposition of rods and cones across his retina, that the center of his visual field was less sensitive to light than his immediate periphery, so he tried staring slightly off to his right.

But all he saw was Cynthia Powski diddling herself with I broken glass.

He almost yelled in terror when Bart ambled from the blackness. People might forget dogs were predators, but primates never did.

'Jeezus, Bart. I damn near shit myself.'

Bartender trotted to the couch and laid his chin on the '; fabric, his eyes limpid and imploring.

Thomas curled on the cushions and hugged his big, hapless dog tight.

'No Frankie tonight, Bart?' he murmured into the dank fur. 'Figured you'd chum with the old man?'

Bart's tail slapped against the coffee table, once, twice, then knocked over Thomas's Rolling Rock.