René looked genuinely pleased that Evan was enjoying his meal. “Would you like seconds?” he asked.

“Yes.”

René moved a bejeweled finger to a slender white remote on the table beside him, and a moment later one of the broad kitchen doors swung open. The narco from the barn, now wearing a chef’s smock in place of a grease-stained shirt, emerged with another plate of meat, also cut as if for a child.

“Careful, Samuel,” René said. “Right there is fine.” He gestured to a spot several feet up from where Evan sat.

Keeping a wary eye on Evan, Samuel placed the plate down with a thunk and retreated to the kitchen. As the doors fanned wide, Evan peered through, taking in the huge kitchen with its center island, wood-fired oven, and cavernous pantry. He plugged it into the blueprint of the house he was constructing in his head.

He rose, claimed his plate, and returned to his seat. The bore of Manny’s shotgun tracked him the entire way.

“Look up,” René said.

Evan did.

“Smile.”

Evan stared at him. René’s eyes peered out through the unnaturally smooth skin of his face. He was serious.

“What, René? You want to be friends?”

René pointed the knife at him. “Given your circumstances, is it wise to make me an enemy?”

“We’re well past that already,” Evan said.

He resumed eating, letting his eyes pick across the room. European outlet plugs spotted the wainscoting. The knockoff Monet upon closer examination was a Monet. On the east side, the dining area blew open into a cathedral-style living room. Beyond oversize couches and ottomans arrayed like sleeping elephants, floor-to-ceiling windows showed off snow-spotted panes backdropped by the black of night. Evan could see his own ghostly reflection floating in the glass.

Even across the length of the table, René’s gaze felt cold on the side of Evan’s face.

“You’re not a complainer,” René said. “I appreciate that. It’s amazing what people can convince themselves constitutes stress. Most Americans seem to believe that safety assurances are awarded at birth like factory-issued warrantees. So far as I can tell, the only American growth industry is entitlement.” He settled back, folded his hands across his belly. His suit, made of a thick velvetlike fabric, didn’t wrinkle. It rippled gracefully, flowing like water. “For the sheep, moral outrage is the coin of the realm. They smother themselves in it.”

Evan ate his meat, one precut bite at a time.

René bristled, his first show of impatience. “Well?”

“This doesn’t interest me,” Evan said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve dealt with enough tin-pot tyrants and back-alley philosophers for one lifetime.”

Rene drew his head back, just slightly, but Evan could see that he was stung. His complexion was bloodless, save for tinges of pink rimming his nostrils and eyes. Despite all his efforts, he looked unwell.