Rat takes a leisurely shower, basking in the luxuriance of limitless hot water, of a showerhead the size of a satellite dish, whose spray you can adjust from mere fog to bouncing hailstones big enough to make you duck and wince.

“Morgan, you want to try this supercool shower or are you too sick?”

“Too sick,” says Morgan, snuffling.

Dressing, Rat remembers one of her going-back-to-sleep dreams, which was a variant on a nightmare she used to have of losing Morgan. In this particular version, she and Morgan were in England, but he was younger, no more than a toddler. They’re in a crowded mall and suddenly Morgan’s gone. In a horrible flash, Rat realizes he’s been nabbed by those same English boys who years ago had murdered a two-year-old they picked up in a shopping mall. And hadn’t she seen on the news that those boys’d just been released from prison? She is pushing past shoppers, howling, wailing, knowing that he is dead or about to die, and mid her bottomless grief, the thought, How am I going to tell Souad?

Until now, Rat realizes, what she and Morgan had in common was that they were each the product of a one-night stand. There were plenty of other kids in Saint Féliu being raised by single mothers. But nobody, besides her and Morgan, whose fathers had never even laid eyes on them once. Now Rat has changed this equation, managed to track down and claim hers, thanks to the hazard of Vanessa’s having ducked into the bushes with a fancy Englishman, and not a truck driver on the A7. But what are the chances of Morgan’s ever finding his dad? None. Unless Pauline’s right, and one day soon, everyone’s DNA will be on an easily readable chip.

The house appears to be empty. In the sink, breakfast plates, a saucepan gummed in yellowed milk. Rat’s first quest is for a washing machine. Opening various doors, she comes upon an entire laundry room.

“Wow—wouldn’t Vanessa flip? They got a whole machine just for drying clothes!”

The sum total of her and Morgan’s dirty wash adds up to a paltry little bundle, not enough even to make an appetizer for the washing machine’s steely maw. She adjusts the setting to Eco, pushes a button, red lights blink, and it starts to roar.

“Are you hungry, Morgan? I’m ravenous. Hey”—catching sight of the kitchen clock—“you know what time it is? It’s ten past three! That makes four p.m., French time!”