The mail Russell had sent was the usual hodgepodge of bills, statements from mutual funds, and pleas for money from hopeless political causes. Sometimes it seemed to him that the utter hopelessness of every political cause he believed in was the most consistent part of his life. There was a postcard from his father, who, according to the picture on the front, was on a cruise in Alaska. “Incredible scenery,” he’d written. “Reminds me of the Upper Peninsula, though not as dramatic.” Since the death of Desmond’s mother, Larry had retired from his law practice and spent most of his time on organized tours of exotic places around the globe, every one of which reminded him of someplace close to home. In theory, travel might be broadening, but most people did it to prove to themselves that, ultimately, they were better off staying on the sofa.

He opened the letter from his editor carefully, using a greasy knife to slit along the seam. Inside was a short note, handwritten on a piece of thin blue paper. “Can’t imagine how I forgot to mention sooner, but today’s my last day here. Permanent maternity leave. Been crazy the past few months trying to close out a few books. Tried to find editorial match for Anderton bio, but enthusiasm low. Kira Manoly (new girl, British, Tina Brown-esque, gorgeous hair) willing to take a look if finished by January. Otherwise, prospects bleak. Don’t despair—they probably won’t ask for the advance back and we’ll always have Westerly!”