“Yes,” says Gillem. “Apparently there were six bombs that went off in different trains simultaneously. Plus the bus. You know, which exploded just when all the people who’d been evacuated from the Tube were being rerouted onto buses. Christ. Absolute carnage. They have no idea yet how many people have been killed.” He is talking much too quickly. “They can’t tell yet whether it was suicide bombers or bombs that got detonated by remote control, like the train bombings in Madrid.”

“Ghastly. Well, thank God you’re home safe,” says Kate. “We tried calling Mr. Williamson’s office as soon as we heard, but it was just the answering service.”

“Sorry,” says Rat, once again. She follows her stepmother into the living room, where Artemio and Morgan are still huddled on the floor in front of the television set. Rat sits down on the floor beside Morgan, who leans his body against hers. She takes his hand.

“So you didn’t die,” he says to her, softly.

“Not today.”

“I knew you didn’t. If you were ever hurt, I would feel it here.” He thumps his heart with her hand, the hand that’s holding his. “When you die, I’m coming with you.”

She snuggles him up against her. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to live without you, either.”

On the television screen are slow grainy gray images that have been sent in from people’s cell phones, interspersed with aerial photos of a London street, and a bus whose top’s been blown off, its insides gutted. Is that what she missed, so barely?

“God, makes you nostalgic for the IRA, doesn’t it?” Kate says, wonderingly. “Such sweet bumbling amateurs. And sporting—they always gave one a little warning.”

“Yeah, I’m so glad I moved to London from war-torn Balkans where crazy people are always blowing each other up for no reason,” Mirjana rejoins.

Artemio swings around. He is still wearing his pajamas, which makes him look even younger. His face has gone bright red. “Will you two please shut up so we can hear!” he shouts.

“Artemio,” Kate reproves him. “Do we really have to watch it over and over again on television when your sister’s just been through it? I want to hear more about what happened to her.”

“JUST SHUT UUUUP!” bellows Artemio, jamming the volume button on the television’s remote control until the sound is as loud as that morning’s boom, but continuous.

“Artie …” Gillem takes the control from him and mutes the sound. “It’s all right, darling, it’s all right.”

But Artemio has just flung himself at his father and burst into big shuddering sobs. “IT’S NOT, IT’S NOT, IT’S NOT. It’s never going to be all right again!”