“I’d ask my cousin if he could get good tickets for you, he has tickets for everything around here, but you probably wouldn’t trust some random offer from a stranger,” Gilpatrick said.

Again, that half smile. “Exactly right. Sorry.”

“No sweat,” Gilpatrick said. He smiled. “I hope you enjoy that, though.”

“I’m stupidly excited for it. I’ve traveled for six hours to visit one of the bands that are going to be here, at the same venue as another group I’ve had to catch a plane to see.”

“Ah, I’m so jealous. My favorite bands don’t do the tours or events anymore. I remember catching a bus to go to an event, rained the entire time, crowds of people everywhere, feet churned up mud you could sink in up to your knees.”

“What was that, like, Woodstock?”

“Fuck off,” Gilpatrick said. “I’m not that old.”

The teenager crowed out a laugh, surprising, loud, and genuine. “You—”

Gilpatrick was glancing back at Merindah as the kid had started speaking, seeing if she reacted to the laugh. When the sentence started and stopped suddenly, he looked back at the teenager, to find the guy close-mouthed, arms folded, leaning against the wall, eyes on the ground.

Gilpatrick saw a woman approaching, and turned his attention back to one of the big books of prints. A picture of a wooden duck, blown up to poster size. A map. A hole in reality, giving a closer-up view of the triple-helix with black, narrow buildings clinging to it in the same way iron filings might cling to a magnet.

“Everything okay?” the woman asked.

“Yeah,” the teenager replied.

Gilpatrick glanced back, looking at the woman. She was objectively beautiful, with brown hair in waves, and heavy eye makeup. She wore a striped sweater that she practically swam in, but her figure was nice enough that the suggestions where the sweater made contact drew more attention than something more conventional would. The collar was wide enough that one shoulder was left bare, a hint of a tattoo peeking out beneath a bra strap. She closed her long-lashed eyes as she kissed the teenager.

Had she been a teenager, Gilpatrick would have felt gross taking note of those things. But the woman was closer to Gilpatrick’s age, old enough to be the teenager’s mother, though she would have had him young.

Opening her eyes, she saw Gilpatrick looking.

The look she gave him was long, searching, and unflinching. She was confident enough to look away, searching the area and the scattered people in this particular wing of the shopping center.

“He and I were talking art,” the teenager said.

“Come on,” she said, one hand on the boy’s back, and she didn’t break contact for a second as she steered him around. Leaving.