“Like a day and a half,” Mel says heartlessly. “I talked to Dad last night,” she says. “Nothing. Nobody called to tell him his stepmother broke in, iced a nurse, and escaped. Again.

“Also I called Longwood and asked for an Adele Bonniface, supposedly the assistant communications director who called the TV station about your great escape.”

“And?” Rose says, putting on her lipstick—Izzy’s lipstick. It is deep red with cobalt undertones. The effect is that of an instant tooth whitening. Most satisfactory.

“They’d never heard of her. No such department, no such position, no such person.”

Once Rose would have been shocked that a news service would broadcast unverified information. Those halcyon days were as gone as the eight-track tape player.

“Fake news,” Mel says. She has come of age during the rise and realization of fake news. Like most kids her age, Mel has little interest in what is happening in the adult world. Rose likes that about kids. They have the rest of their lives to suffer anxiety attacks about unverified rumors of flesh-eating bacteria in Outer Slabovia.

“If Longwood was innocent, they would have informed Flynn. The MCU must be where the deed is done, where I was drugged,” Rose says. “We need to find out who inside the MCU is participating, who is providing the victims, and why. Longwood is not doing the Angel of Mercy thing, offing pathetic oldsters. Victims are being provided by the criteria of early onset, rapid onset. We need to find out what value we—the aforementioned victims—have dead that we don’t have alive. Hopefully Barbara Boster will shed light on that.”

“You should call first,” Mel says. “Nobody drops by like in the olden days. Not ever. You call first, even if you’re sitting in a car at the curb in front of their house.”

“She’s probably deaf and doesn’t answer her cell phone,” Rose replies. “If she even has one.”

“You are such an ageist!” Mel tells her.

Rose is affronted. Some of her best friends are old people. “I’m still not going to call. Barbara Boster might refuse to see us—”

“Or won’t be home. Or will be in the bathroom and not hear the doorbell,” Mel interjects.

“That could happen, but the element of the sudden unknown is a powerful thing. In art, theater, dance, life, when people are presented with the sudden unknown they wake up for a second or two. Occasionally for long enough you can be in the moment with them, see who they really are.”

“Yeah. Then they chase you onto the roof with a knife in their teeth or spike your OJ.”

“There’s that,” Rose concedes. “I’m not going to call. Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Mel rolls her eyes.