Purdy twisted the upper segment of the bullet.

"Sorry, fellas."

"Nice phone," I said.

"Thanks, though I am not even sure it's a phone. I don't think they've decided. It's a prototype."

"But you can talk into it."

"Yes, that's true. So, what's up? Did you get a load of this joint?"

"Starting to."

"You try the archery yet? It's kind of random, I know, but one of the founders used to shoot competitively. It's like a Zen thing for her now."

"Cool. I'll have to go down and check it out."

"Melinda is back there having deep talks with badass midwives. This morning they finished up a fifty-seven-hour labor. Can you believe that? A breech vee-back with a flat cord, double-looped. I have no idea what that means, but I want to film one and put it on a cell phone. So people can watch it on their cell phones. Did you get a smoothie?"

"I'm fine," I said.

"You could probably use one."

"I'll manage."

"Manage what? Manage to die? Two Hind Kindnesses, please."

The bartender, a young woman with skuzzed hair and a mahogany disk distending her lower lip, nodded.

"So, thanks for waiting. I guess you had to deal with all of this stuff with Abner."

"Bernie," I said.

"Sorry, Bernie. Bold name, by the way. You just definitely want him to be an accountant?"

"We like the name. We named him after my grandfather."

"I'm all for it. There are definitely too many Elis and Olivers and Broncos around."

"Bronco?"

"We know a couple that went with Bronco."

"What are you guys thinking about for a name?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know. How about Don? That's a solid name."

Purdy pinched out a smile.

"I met with Don," I said.

"That's why we're here."

"In your email you mentioned something about further exploring the give."

"Due time."

"Okay, so."

"What did the kid say? Did he pass along a message?"

I told Purdy most everything, left out the soliloquy about cock cancer and the accordion bus. I didn't mention Sasha's offer of a fondle, either. I had never considered it genuine. I think she was just afraid of silence. I described the apartment, Don's legs, his humps, his girls.

"I almost want to cry," said Purdy. "Poor kid. I can't believe what we do to them. Fucking hell."

"Well, maybe someday we can finally-"

"Oh, screw that," said Purdy. "It will always be this way. We do war. That's what we do. We can't be babies about it. I'm a liberal hawk."

"Swoop!" Michael Florida giggled, but I took it for synaptic misfire. He turned back to the girl behind the bar.

"But it's just not right how we treat our guys," said Purdy. "My guy. What we need is a draft, that's all. Why does Don have to do all the fighting? Why not the sons of privilege?"

"I don't know, Purdy."

"What else did he say?"

"He's really angry. I guess that's my point. He's really angry with you. And with the world. I think it gets mixed up for him."

"Did I ask for a diagnosis? Are you licensed?"

"You said you wanted my take."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I did."

"He wants more money."

"How much?"

"He didn't specify. He said the envelopes need to be thicker."

"Thicker."

"And he said he'd like you to take him to the zoo. But I think he was kidding."

"No shit."

"Look, I'm sorry if-"

"No, no. It's me. I'm still raw with this stuff. You can imagine how touchy it is."

"Touched out," muttered Michael Florida.

"There's something you need to know," said Purdy. "He called Melinda."

"He did? When?"

"Yesterday. Hung up. Mel just thought it was a wrong number. But I asked to see her phone and I saw his name in the display. I can't figure him out."

"Maybe you should just tell Melinda. I mean-"

"Milo, you have no idea what you're talking about. Just leave off. That part is not your concern."

His voice had a new cold quaver.

"Understood."

"What is it, Milo?"

"Maybe we should talk in private?"

"This is private."

"Okay. It's just about why Don is so pissed."

"I was a shitty father, Milo. Completely absent. It's not complicated."

"He said something about his mother. About you not paying bills. And something about a motel."

Purdy regarded me oddly. I could not tell if he wanted me to continue. Maybe he was waiting to see what I would say next, and based on that certain irrevocable actions would be taken. It was like those Choose Your Own Adventure books, without so much of the choosing part.

I met his eyes, smiled.

"This is also in that category of stuff that is not my concern," I said. "My bad."

Purdy put a hand on my shoulder.

"You're doing a great job, Milo. I really appreciate this. And your colleagues will appreciate you when this is all over. In the meantime, take this, a sort of goodwill gesture from me. About my seriousness with regard to the give."

He slid an envelope into my shirt pocket.

"I can't take that," I said.

"You already have. You'll hear from me, or somebody, soon. I've got to get back in there with the midwives. You're a good friend, Milo. By the way, we're having a dinner thing next week. Some people from our wasted youth will be there. Should be fun. Michael?"

"Present."

"I need you to pick up a pair of relief chaps for Melinda. Open-toed."

"Relief chaps," said Michael Florida.

"They're compression stockings. They reduce the chance of varicose veins. I'm all for varicose veins. Melinda could use some flaws. But she wants them."

"Relief chaps," said Michael Florida.

"I know," said Purdy. "If I only had a band to name."

Purdy rubbed my head.

"Was there anything else? About Don? Just a little thing. Some kind of detail? I'm curious."

"Well," I said. "He mentioned something about the fake internet."

"The what?"

"He thinks the internet is fake. Or else he thinks there's something called the fake internet."

"So, he's not that dumb."

Purdy wheeled and jogged across the atrium, tugged his phone from his pocket.

Michael Florida and I stood wordless at the bar. I sipped my Hind Kindness. Michael Florida reached over and tasted Purdy's.

"Last time they were creamier," he said. "More hind-y."

Twenty

The hand-scrawled sign over the door to Happy Salamander read: "Closed indefinitely due to pedagogical conflicts. Sincerely, The Blue Newt Faction."

"Fuck," I said, a word I had made sincere efforts to purge from my repertoire of professed displeasure, at least in the presence of my son. It was 8:50 in the morning and Bernie and I were alone on an Astoria side street, not far from a sandwich shop that sold a sopressatta sub called "The Bypass." I used to eat that sandwich weekly, wash it down with espresso soda, smoke a cigarette, go for a jog. Now I was too near the joke to order the sandwich, and my son's preschool was in the throes of doctrinal schism.

"Fuck," said Bernie. "Fuckwinky eyeballhead."

"No, Bernie. We don't use those words."

"Which words?"

"You know which words."

"You used them, Daddy."

"I made a mistake. I am sorry I said that word. It isn't helping with our problem."

"What's our problem?"

"There may be no school today."

"That's okay," said Bernie. "It'll be okay."

We weren't sure where he had picked up that becalming phrase, probably from us, as we tried to talk ourselves out of the awful lucidity certain days afforded. The whole mirthless dwindle of things would suddenly pull into focus, the crabbed, moneyless exhaustion that stood in for our lives, and Maura and I would both start the chatter, the cheap pep: It's okay, it's going to be okay, we'll get through this. When Bernie repeated these bromides, he sounded seventy years old. It broke your heart, as did about forty-three percent of the things Bernie said and did. About twenty-seven percent of the things he said and did made you want to scream and banish him to his childproofed room, or do much more heinous and ingenious things, just so he'd get the point, whatever the point could be with an almost-four-year-old, but still, to bury him alive and then save him at the last minute, or tell him that the state had passed a law against ice cream and he would go to prison if he even thought about it, because they now had the technology to detect illegal mint-chocolate-chip cogitation, had, in fact, the chips for it, seemed, if not conducive to his development, at least on some level deserved. Thirty percent of what Bernie said and did was either on the bubble or else utterly inscrutable, just the jolts and stutters of a factory-fresh brain working out the kinks.