Rose lets them go and takes an envelope out of the tote. “This has directions to the house. It’s on Ugugu Lane. I don’t know if that’s the right pronunciation. There’s also a thousand dollars in cash. That should keep you in food and whatever else Chuck might need for a week or two.”

“This Chuck guy, he’s crazy,” Eddie says. “I should keep the gun.” Eddie is wound so tight, he crouches in the seat like a hunchbacked troll and clutches the steering wheel close to his chest.

“Not crazy. Drugged. Totally malleable. He’ll be out of it for a day or two; then he’ll start to get better.” Rose so very much hopes this is true. “Chuck is a gentle soul. I keep the gun.”

As she speaks, she unzips Eddie’s bowling bag, takes out the revolver, and replaces it with the envelope containing the cash and directions. They drive beneath a streetlamp, and Eddie’s eyes flicker to the money.

“Don’t even think about it,” Rose warns. “Or—”

“I know, I know, Armageddon,” Eddie grumbles.

Before she can suppress it, a look of surprise flits across her face.

Eddie snorts. “Yeah. I know some big words, too. Catholic family. Armageddon. Excommunication. Damnation. What part of that isn’t on the menu for tonight?”

Rose can’t answer that.

At eight thirty P.M. they are unobtrusively lurking in the red-tipped photinia eight paces from the sliding glass doors of the MCU, Rose with her tote bag of placards, brick, and gun, Eddie with a crumpled grocery sack containing, Rose assumes, the rest of his disguise.

“Just relax. Act like you belong here. Be cool, but not overconfident,” Rose advises.

“Not babble like a crazy old lady doddering in the bushes with a gun in her purse?” Eddie whispers.

“I do not dodder,” Rose grumbles, but she takes the hint and stops talking.

They watch the doors. At eight thirty-seven a young woman in a black skirt, red-checked blouse, and red kitten heels, eyes glued to her cell phone, steps on the mat. The doors slide open. The receptionist is going home for the night.

“I’ll keep the door open. When she’s gone, you come,” Rose reminds Eddie of the plan, if what she has in mind can be dignified with the word “plan.”

As the receptionist steps out, Rose steps in, murmuring a pleasant “Good night.”

“Good night,” the woman echoes, her eyes never leaving the tiny screen.

Before the doors slide closed, Rose jams the brick between them. No alarms, at least none she can see or hear, go off.

Eddie emerges from behind the hedge. He walks quickly to the doors. On his head is an orange wig. He muscles the doors far enough apart for him to squeeze through. Rose sees his face and gasps. “Jeez! I didn’t mean that scary.”

He is wearing a Donald Trump mask.