He shook a little—a bump—into his palm, used his fingernail to group it, then held it out to Kitty. She closed her left nostril and snorted through her right. Johan smiled, feeling her damp mouth against his skin. It was like feeding a sick animal. A lamb, maybe.

Kitty sat up, rubbing her nose. “That . . . that . . .” Her eyes cleared suddenly. She looked slowly from left to right, taking it all in, then up at the sky. “Okay, yeah . . . that feels good.”

“You’re tweeting,” Johan said. “That’s what the movie stars call it. And the best part: there are no external symptoms. You look perfectly natural.”

“Nobody can tell?” Kitty looked down at her body, running her hands over her stomach. “Because I feel like I’m a hundred feet tall.”

“And yet in total control,” Johan said. “There’s no comedown, either. No crash.”

“I dig it.” She looked at him, frowning. “How did you do this?”

His usual vague response: “I know a man.”

Kitty stood and walked around the pool, where the ground rose slightly, offering views across Franklin Canyon and the city beyond. Everything winked and flashed. Even the darkness wanted to shine.

“I could pick this whole city up,” Kitty said. Her voice was strong and confident. She made an effortless lifting motion. “Like a record. Put it on a turntable and spin it.”

“What would it sound like?”

“Whatever I want it to sound like.” She grinned. It lit a fire beneath her skin. Then she cocked her head, listening. “Talking of sounds . . . can you hear the birds?”

Kitty dashed along the side of the house, whipping through the lilacs and sunflowers. Johan—barefoot, buttoning his jeans—struggled to keep up. She stopped at the aviary, her fingers laced through the wire mesh, gazing at the flecks of color within the dark canopy. The sound was exhilarating.

“I heard Barrett used to own a tiger,” Johan said. “Birds are safer.”

Kitty scrolled along the side of the aviary until she found the door. A simple hook-and-eye device kept it closed. She flipped it and stepped inside. The birds responded. A flurry of greens, yellows, and blues. Kitty closed the door behind her and spread her arms.

She stood motionless. Johan thought the birds might land on her arms and shoulders but they didn’t. After several minutes, their excitement ebbed. A lovebird swooped close to Kitty and she whipped out her hand, quick as a cat, and plucked it from the air.

“Everything inside me . . . if it isn’t complete, it can be.” She cupped the bird tenderly, stroking one thumb along its bright feathers. “Nothing is broken.”

The limo took them home. Kitty sat next to Johan, singing along to the music. “I remember every word,” she said. Thiago and Enzo slept hand in hand across from them, their hair mussed, their Canali suits wrinkled. Liberty had gone home with one of the stars of Exit 68.