Kincaid drags a chair over—a couple old ladies stop eating their early-bird lunches to stare at him like he has horns and a spaded tail—and drops it backward at the foot of our booth, straddling it with his arms folded on top of the backrest, gazing in that unfocused, possibly stoned way of his while Daisy gives his board a look, saying after a pause, “I suppose you want something.”

He glances up, not obviously sucked in by the tractor beam of her hotness, which earns him points. “Can you bring some of that tea? That red tea, that comes in the pot?” He makes the pot shape with his hands.

Bree and I sneak a look at each other. Daisy studies the ceiling. “Tea in a pot. Let me see what we have.” Steps elaborately around his board as she goes.

Trace talks while shoveling. “I got questions for you, bud.” Waits as Daisy brings the tea, leaves again. “Dude. Eat, for chrissake,” he says to Kincaid. “You’re more than covered for an eight-ninety-nine buffet. Man cannot live on Fireball alone. You’ll get gut rot and die.”

Kincaid smiles, taking a sweet-and-sour wonton from Moon’s plate with his fingers. Still hasn’t looked at me, as if last night never happened. “Questions about what?”

Moon grabs the paper napkin by Trace’s elbow, holding it up. “Attack plan for tomorrow night.”

Trace swears, jerking his arm down, glancing over his shoulder at the old ladies. “It’s called discretion, man. Jesus. The Golden Girls over there probably live on Perfect.” Trace flattens the napkin, which serves as a canvas for a crude map drawn in ballpoint. Intersecting lines. A street grid. “You know in-town way better than I do.” He stabs his finger at one of the lines, a row of squares down either side, representing houses. “If you follow Perfect, you hit Oak, right? Where does Oak let out if you go east?”

“Anson Pond Road.” Kincaid sucks sauce off his thumb. “Takes you over the town line into Derby, if you keep going.”

Sage stares at the map. “What is this?”

“This”—Trace vibrates his hands above it—“is a siege. Of epic proportions.” Pastor voice, at low volume, high malice; if there was a congregation present, they’d be shaking: “Their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

“Meaning?”

“Nuke the block.” Moon smiles, one earbud dangling.

Sage bites into a crab Rangoon, chewing with a slow and steady gaze. Trace releases a breath, tries again. “We need you guys. That’s why I wanted everybody in the war room today. Got a list for you.” Pulls a scrap of paper out of his pocket and tosses it to Bree. “Read it, know it, swallow the evidence.” Checks his phone. “Shit. Ten minutes.”

Bree looks at the list. “Why would we have these things?”