She pulled out her smartphone—another graduation gift—to show Janine an image of the gathering storm: a whorl of white, out in the Caribbean. Janine did not understand how this counted as a reason to go.

“You’ll have to ask your mother about that one,” said Rick.

Beth looked at her pleadingly.

“Wouldn’t Channel 6 miss you? What about school?”

“Mom,” Beth said. “They want me to develop my talents. They want me to succeed.” She said this reproachfully—as if her mother had ever been on some other side! As if she hadn’t sacrificed and sacrificed so her girls could succeed. Looking at her two daughters, Janine had the sudden, horrible thought that perhaps a human fascination with zygotes came from their sense of endless, mute possibility, obediently dividing and dividing. This one won’t argue, wheedle, act recklessly.

“I wish I could go,” said Chrissy.

“Yes! Let’s all go!” Janine said, standing with her plate, though she hadn’t eaten a thing. “Let’s all drive straight into a hurricane, straight into hell! Great idea!”

“Honey,” said Rick, though he didn’t get up.

Scraping ratatouille and chicken into the trash, she heard her younger daughter explaining to him: “Don’t worry, Dad. Poetry just makes Mom a little crazy.”

15

It looked like good news, at first.

The protesters were gone, after their hours of sign waving and tedious chanting. Marianne had come up with a few choice chants herself, but had not had the opportunity to share them. The Channel 13 News van had come and gone, and in the wake of the controversy the Ranch’s website received a record number of hits. The low-residency application was downloaded more than four hundred times in a single day, and already the online classes and seminars Marianne had considered canceling for poor enrollment were overflowing.

Up since dawn, Marianne had it all worked out. These people—these talk radio listeners, these fetal champions, these Tad Tucker minions—would be the Christians she would fleece. She got out a calculator and did some quick sums, pacing her office with a cup of strong coffee while she considered the ramifications of better cash flow. With their money in hand, she could pay back everything they’d borrowed from GWGW and become independent again. They could build a real library and pay Lorraine and Tom tidy bonuses to make up for any distasteful associations. Maybe she could pay off her own student loans.

“What do you think about scholarships?” she asked Eric, when he called to apologize for his absence. He explained, without answering, that he’d finally finished the first half of Davonte’s manuscript, and they were awaiting word from publishers. There was talk of an auction, a six-figure advance.