“How about a body cast?”

“No, there was a piece about integrating toys among multiple partners, but I don’t think I—wait. A tourniquet?”

“Sure,” North said, toeing the man in the paisley gown. “Because I’m going to cut your dick off if you even think about dragging me into a poly thing. Brickle must be the damn dog.”

“Wait, what?”

“The dog. I think he keeps saying the dog’s name.”

“No, about cutting off my—what are you talking about?”

North glanced up, his ice-rim eyes frank. “I’ll cut your dick off, sweetheart. Now help me get him back to the lake house.”

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“We did talk about it. If you ever try to drag me into a poly thing, off comes your dick. Now grab his feet.”

“You threatened me.”

“Not at all. Just telling you cause and effect.”

“You’re trying to control my body.”

“Shaw, come on. You know me better than that.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes. “You’re creating a toxic, controlling relationship.”

“You can do whatever you want,” North said, spreading his hands.

“That’s better.”

“You’re just going to do it without your dick. Now grab his feet.”

Together, they carried the man back to the Aldrich lake house. His hysterics subsided; some of it, Shaw guessed, had to do with the fresh air and with being hauled around like a sack of grain. But some of it—Shaw was judging now by the way the man’s watery eyes rolled and fixed on North—had to do with North’s threat of de-dickification.

In the cool shadows of the lake house, Shaw found a cold can of seltzer water and popped the top. North turned his head at the sound and shook his head.

“Something stronger than that.”

So Shaw found brandy, poured it in a snifter, and felt like he was taking part in some bizarre P. G. Wodehouse story.

The man in the paisley dressing gown tossed back the brandy, wiped his eyes, and gasped, again, “Brickle.”

“It’s got to be the damn dog,” North said.

Shaw shrugged. “Maybe he wants some candy.”

“I’m telling you it’s the dog.”

“I think he’s just diabetic.”

“Please tell him you’re not diabetic,” North said.

“You’re being ableist,” Shaw said.

The man in the paisley dressing gown gaped at them.

“Well,” North said, “tell him.”

“He kidnapped Brickle,” the man said. “He took him and now he’s hurting him.”

“Who?” North said.

“Who are you?” the man said.

“The Bobbsey Twins,” North said.

“The Power Rangers,” Shaw said.

“Red and Blue,” North said.

“I thought you liked Voltron. Maybe we should be the Voltron guys.”

“They’re called paladins, Shaw. And Voltron is for fucking losers.”

Dressing-gown was still staring at them.

North snapped his fingers.