“I caught Maddy and Jørgen making the beast with two backs,” I say.

“Just now?” he says. “We should tell the others.”

We round up Carl from the dining room, the Professor from a nap, Liam and Reginald coming down from the Chimaera, and inform them of the recent developments. They all look as if they had been punished for infringing upon a rule they didn’t know they were supposed to obey.

“Do you think they’re still doing it?” Liam asks.

“Probably,” I say.

“I say we go check it out,” Carl says.

“Yes, let us investigate,” the Professor says.

The six of us tiptoe into the bushes in front of Maddy’s window. There’s some elbowing and shoving and jostling for a prime position until we’re all settled and ready to take a peek. Maddy and Jørgen are exactly where I left them. For several minutes, we can only speechlessly watch the hippie copulation. Liam breaks the silence by starting to cry. It occurs to me we all need to stop crying.

“I miss my mom,” he says.

“I can’t b-b-believe this is happening,” Reginald says.

“We should teach him a lesson,” I say, as it occurs to me.

“How?” Seung Hun asks.

“Make him face us and explain himself,” I reply. “Or we can beat him up.” I don’t really mean it, but there’s no way for them to know that.

“Come out here and fight us, Jørgen!” Carl shouts. “Unless you’re too big of a coward to accept the challenge?”

“We want justice!” Liam chimes in. “We want blood,” the Professor adds, in a very refined fashion. Half of us start chanting, “Jør-gen, Jør-gen, Jør-gen,” while the other half chants, “Cow-ard, cow-ard, co-ward,” and the choral effect is so muddled that it doesn’t sound like we are demanding anything in particular. Someone, likely Seung Hun or Liam, throws a kebab he has been saving for who knows what purpose, and it leaves a wet meat imprint shaped like a heart in the middle of Maddy’s door.

At last her door opens, revealing not Jørgen but Maddy wearing Jørgen’s robe. That she’s wearing his robe instead of hers is added insult. When she thrusts out her elbows in frustration and places her hands upon her hips, the impossibly large sleeves tumble and pool past her wrists. The effect is rather sweet, of a girl playing dress-up in adult clothing, and then she begins her admonishment.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks. “I know I’ve given the group of you access to my body, but that doesn’t grant you a say in my choice of sexual partners. Not one of you has bothered to find out the reason I’m here. What happened was I gave birth to a little boy, and he was quiet. He was so quiet it woke me up, and when I went to check on him, he was cold. I stood in the same spot in my house for days, vagina still bleeding from the delivery of my son, breasts leaking into a disgusting sweater, eyes and nose leaking into my mouth, and my mouth open in a wail. If I could have held him one more time, I was sure I could manage, but he had already been set on fire, and he was gone. His ashes were buried in my garden. Fluids were leaking out of me from every orifice, and I was utterly, totally alone. Do you think you’re the only ones who need love? I’m done. Consider yourselves weaned. Now go to your rooms!”