Rose stretches her right arm out. Her wrist is bandaged and wrapped in gauze. The scrapes on her elbows have been cleansed, treated with Neosporin, and patched with bandages. All is done as prettily as a Christmas box from Lord & Taylor.

Mel and Royal took first aid in seventh grade. On their homecoming the previous night, while Grandma watched a rerun of Dexter at top volume abovestairs, Rose was smuggled into the basement.

Peroxide, secrecy, bandages, and cold pizza and grape juice by candlelight in the life-sized teepee have changed Rose’s perception of the night from a bad, geriatric acid trip to a delightful camp-out, missing nothing but s’mores.

For years Rose has read various texts affirming that life is but a dream, all phenomena essentially empty, devoid of a separate individual existence. Before she’d fallen asleep, there had been a second or two when she almost understood those concepts.

“What’s with this Royal person?” Marion asks.

“Thomas Hardy’s coincidental meetings on the heath are nothing compared with Charlotte’s greenway. As it happens, Royal, Mel’s friend, is the kid that gave me water the first time I broke out of the MCU.”

“Then turned you in to the men with the butterfly nets,” Marion reminds her.

“True,” Rose admits. “But he did it in a kindly way, and with exquisite manners. Kids today!” Rose huffs. “They are way smarter, and more sophisticated, than we were at their age.”

“We were the last of the feral children.” Marion sighs. “Allowed to run free.”

“Little savages,” Rose agrees. “Mel is like a young Hillary Clinton—but universally lovable. You should have seen the way she took over, got help, transported the victim, opened the field hospital, found shelter and food. Mind-blowing.”

There is a flat silence from Marion’s side of the ether.

“What?” Rose demands.

“You promised me,” Marion says.

“I promised you what?”

“That you wouldn’t go gaga over the grandchild.”

“I didn’t!” Rose protests. “Not for years.”

“You called her a human larva. You insisted she wasn’t even your grandchild. She was Harley’s.”

“That was a relative truth. The absolute truth is that any child who falls asleep in your lap is your grandchild.”

“You are confusing kids with cats,” Marion says with asperity. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You’re gaga.”

“I will not dignify that with a response,” Rose says.

“Harumph.” Marion tires of the subject. “I haven’t gotten every page of the MCU patient files stopped and sorted yet. Maybe tomorrow. I did run into a piece of luck while I was exploring.”

Rose waits while Marion fiddles with her computer. There is nothing to hear, but Rose has listened to that particular brand of nothing so many times over the years, she can practically tell if Marion is on iPad, laptop, or PC.

“You’re on speaker,” Marion tells her. “Can you still hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”