“And a good thing, too!” Rose argues. “If it had been, somebody might have gotten hurt. I should at least get Brownie points for that.” She looks from one young face to the other. If soft child-flesh can be said to be stony, theirs is. “No Brownie points?”

“No Brownie points,” Mel says flatly.

“That guy in the Trump mask, who was he?” Royal asks.

Rose buries her face in her hands. “No one special,” she mumbles through her fingers. She’d known the manure was going to hit the fan; she just hadn’t thought it would be so soon, or so public.

“When you said you had to get Chuck out of there, I thought you meant you’d get a representative to walk in the front door and check him out like a civilized person. Not go all Rambo and gunslinging, with a henchman, for God’s sake. In a mask! This is so bad, Gigi.”

It is. It is so bad. Rose feels her guts collapse inward, her stamina crumble, her plans implode. The wild hare chase she’s been leading herself, and these kids, and the police, is over. She is so tired, she would weep, except it would only add to the crushing sense of guilt and failure.

“How did you get in?” Royal asks. “I thought the unit was locked from the inside.”

Rose wonders if Karen destroyed the placards so she wouldn’t have to admit she was tricked into losing her temper and opening the door to villains.

Before she has to answer, Mel asks, “Did you really leave the gun so the nurse wouldn’t lose her job?”

“That was on the security tape?” Rose asks.

“Everything between the edge of what must be the reception desk to the hall where the Donald Trump guy went to get the old man,” Mel says.

“That old man is Chuck Boster, my friend. I did this to save his life,” Rose says. Cheap shot. Though it is true, she hasn’t said it to communicate truth. She’s said it to make Mel feel bad. Unfortunately, it works. Mel’s face softens into guilty sadness.

Rose wishes she could take it back, but words spoken are actions done. No more lying. “Partly to save her job. Partly in hopes the police could trace it.”

“Where did you get it?” Royal asks. He doesn’t sit, but stands in the parting of the canvas, as if a sudden departure might be required.

“TMI,” Rose apologizes. “It’s probably untraceable, though. Numbers or something filed off—whatever experienced criminals do.”

“You have to turn yourself in,” Mel says.

Rose tries to think about that, but her mind is opaque, a recently clear pond choked with duckweed.

“The news reporters were interviewing the cops,” Royal says. “Everybody is talking about you being … unstable.”