“What the hell is wrong with you?”

The stranger went to the father and spoke very quietly. “It’s not too late to stop being an asshole. Almost. But you have a little time left.”

The father stepped back and took out his phone. “If you don’t leave right now I’m going to call a cop.”

“Time management. It’s the key to the universe,” said the stranger. He laughed and went back down the hill listening to the happy sounds of the girl and her new dog.

At about ten in the morning, Coop awoke from weird dreams. The spiders were still there. Dozens of them. But now, some of them looked like Salzman and some like Nelson, Woolrich, and Mr. Lemmy. Others resembled the prison warden at Surf City, Mr. Babylon, the tentacled twins from the DOPS, the gill people from Jinx Town, the fanged Vin Mariani girl, and all the werewolves that had chased him and Giselle out of the bar. The spider people all had on little top hats and tap shoes, and carried tiny canes. They did a complicated dance routine on their web to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain.” The worst part was that they were pretty good. Yes, the spiders’ voices were a little high and grating, but it was a lavish production number, with a band and lights and cannons shooting confetti at the end. In his dream, Coop couldn’t help but applaud, and he woke up in bed clapping. So much for sleep. He got up and put on coffee.

There was a knock on the front door exactly at noon. When Coop opened it, Bayliss stood there, her expression a bit happy, a bit surprised, and a bit puzzled. “You’re here,” she said.

“I said I would be.”

“I know. I just wasn’t sure.”

Coop stepped out of the way so she could come in. “You want anything?” he said. “Coffee? A drink?”

Coop motioned to the sofa and she sat down. “I’m fine, thanks.” She looked around the apartment like she was a paleontologist trying to put a mammoth together from teeth and a couple of toe bones.

“Did you hear about the big earthquake?”

“Here?”

“No. San Francisco.”

“Fuck San Francisco. L.A. is where the world is going to end. Not up in kale country.”

“I guess you’re right.”

When Coop looked over, he saw her examining the place with her eyes. “It’s not my place. It’s Morty’s,” he said.

“That makes more sense. It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting your place to look like.”

Coop poured himself a cup of coffee. “And what would my place look like?”

“I’m not sure,” said Bayliss, a look of distress creeping across her face. “A little . . . darker?”

“Why do people keep saying stuff like that? I’m a cheerful guy. Look, this mug says ‘World’s Best Crook.’ That’s fun, right?”

Bayliss looked at the mug and shook her head. She said, “I think it’s a little bit sad in a way.”