“I wasn’t inside,” Poe said, his eyes studying some lump of clay between his shoes. “And Dr.—Patrick—came running out the side door like a wild boar that smells fresh blood.”

I nodded, letting him know it was okay to keep going.

“Yeah.” Poe ground his boot into the clay, swiveling the toe until there wasn’t anything left but dust. “All I heard was ‘Lockdown! Lockdown!’ and something about Morgan’s memo. Well, that’s not true.” Another clay ball suffered under the toe of Poe’s left boot. “I heard shots. You know how they always have those guys on the roof of the White House? The ones no one ever sees?”

“I know.”

“Well, I guess that’s who fired. I don’t know any more to tell you, Dr. McClellan.”

“Jean,” I said, taking his hand. “Jean is fine.”

He turned to leave, shoulders low and fists shoved deep in his pockets. Then he looked back. “I do know one more thing, Jean. When your husband took that bullet, I swear he was smiling.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s good enough for me.”

And it still is.

Chapter Eighty

EIGHTY

Canada was warm all through June and July while we waded through the red tape and waited as six passport applications wormed their way around Montreal offices. I would have liked to stay, if only through the summer months. Something about the lakes and rivers as heat-drenched days morphed into cool, calm nights was soothing. But home called, and French never came easily to me. Also, I needed to see my mother.

The south coast of Italy, by contrast, is anything but calm. Tourists have invaded our sleepy town, and more will come in August. Still, it’s the place I want to be.

Lorenzo has been working on his project day and night since we arrived on Monday. He says he’ll have the serum ready by the weekend, thanks to the notes Poe stole from his office back in Washington. He’s promised to take the kids hiking on Capri when he’s finished. He’s good with them, I think, and Steven, although leery at first, has grown to treat him like an older brother.

I’ll take that.

We’ve kept up with the news since we crossed the border from Maine into Canada, and then the Atlantic from Canada to here.

The radios and televisions came to life again; the presses started to roll out newspapers. Women marched in silence until their wrists and words were freed. Jackie seems to be at the head of every march. She writes that, when she’s ready, she’ll visit us.