Watch

Dr. Marcuse struggled to get to his feet, succeeding on the second try. “Let’s go,” he said, dropping the printout onto the chair. The three of them headed outside. They crossed the wide lawn behind the bungalow, lowered the drawbridge again, and walked onto the little island. “Where is he?” asked Dillon.

Shoshana scanned around. He wasn’t atop the Lawgiver anymore.

“There,” said Dillon, indicating with a movement of his head. He was crouching near the base of one of the palm trees.

Sho took the scrunchie out of her hair and shook out her ponytail. They began walking toward him. He had to know they were here—Dr. Marcuse could not cross the little drawbridge without it making a lot of noise. Still, it was a few moments before Hobo looked their way, and as soon as he did, he charged toward them.

Stop, Shoshana signed, and “Stop!” she shouted.

But he didn’t, and, as he closed the distance, it became clear he wasn’t running toward them generally but rather was very specifically heading for Dillon.

Dillon stood his ground for a half second, then turned tail and ran. He dived into the moat, sending up a great splash, and swam quickly over to the other side.

Once Dillon was off the island, Hobo gave up his pursuit. He turned briefly to face Shoshana and bared his teeth but didn’t move toward her.

Harl Marcuse—all three-hundred-and-something-pounds of him—was intimidating to primates of all types. He stared directly at Hobo and repeatedly and emphatically made the no sign: the index and middle fingers snapping against the thumb.

Hobo didn’t sign anything in return, and he soon took off again, fleeing to the far side of the island. Rather than following him, Marcuse huffed and puffed his way up to the gazebo, with Shoshana in tow. He lifted the latch —one that Hobo had no trouble operating—and opened the screen door.

Inside, on the easel, was a new painting.

It was not a picture of Shoshana. The hair was yellow, not brown, and there was some hair on the bottom of the head as well as the top. The single eye—it was, as always, a profile—was brown, not blue.

Hobo had never bothered to paint Shoshana’s clothes. She tended to wear blues and greens, but he had always simply portrayed her head without a body.

But this time he had made an attempt at the clothing, putting a large black square beneath the head.

It was Dillon, in one of his black T-shirts. Shoshana had given in to her curiosity once, asking him whether he had more than one; he had six, he’d said, all identical.

No arms depended from the shirt. There were, however, two orange lines—the same orange he’d used for Dillon’s face—at the bottom of the frame. Each of the lines had a forty-five-degree bend in its middle, and—

—and one end of each line was daubed with red paint, and there were splotches of red on either side of the black square representing the shirt.

Shoshana looked over at Marcuse to see if he was interpreting it the same way she was—but there really could be no mistaking what Hobo had depicted: he’d painted Dillon with his arms ripped off.

“The artist,” said Dr. Marcuse, “has entered his Angry period.”

fourteen

With the crisis apparently over, Dr. Kuroda had said good-bye and gone back to bed. Caitlin and her mother were settling in to spend more time with Webmind when the doorbell rang. Back in Texas, the rule had been that Caitlin didn’t answer the door unless she was expecting someone. Out of habit, her mother started to get up, but Caitlin smiled, and said, “I can do it, you know.” She headed down the stairs, a curious Schrodinger tagging along. It was Caitlin’s first time using the peephole, and—

Holy cow!

It looked like Bashira, but her face was distorted, like the reflection Caitlin had seen of herself in the back of the spoon. “Bash?” she called out tentatively.

“It’s me,” came the muffled reply. Caitlin opened the door and—

Ah, that was a relief! Bashira looked entirely normal. She was wearing a blue headscarf today, and was holding a multicolored box.

“Happy birthday, babe!” Bashira said.

“Oh, my God!” said Caitlin. She reached for it and for the first time understood what the expression “heavier than it looks” meant; it weighed a ton. “Come in, come in.”

Bashira did so and immediately began taking off her shoes—which was, Caitlin had discovered to her embarrassment, a Canadian custom; she’d blithely entered people’s houses without removing hers several times before someone had gently set her straight.

Caitlin’s mom had appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Bashira.”

“Hi, Dr. Decter. Hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I brought Cait a present.”

Caitlin was torn. She looked up at her mom, wondering what to do about Webmind. But her mother said, “That’s fine, Bashira. Caitlin, don’t worry—I’ll, um, look after things up here.”

Caitlin smiled. “Okay.” She could have led Bashira into the living room, but her mother would have been able to hear them there; instead, they headed down to the basement. It wasn’t the most comfortable place—bare cement floor, bare walls with insulation showing, an old TV, a couple of worktables, and two comfortable swivel chairs her father had—ahem—borrowed from the Perimeter Institute. Kuroda had worked down here while he’d been staying with them.

Caitlin put the gift package on one of the tables.

“Go ahead,” Bashira said. “Open it.”

She did. It took several seconds for her to figure out what she was seeing: a boxed set of hardcovers of the Harry Potter novels. “These are,” Bashira announced, “like, the best books ever. You said you’d never read them, and now that you’re learning to read normal printed books, these are the ones to start with.” She pointed at the spine of the first one. “And these are the Canadian editions—none of that Sorcerer’s Stone crap for us.”

Caitlin hugged Bashira. “Thank you! But—but they must have cost a lot of money.”

“Hey,” said Bashira, sitting down on one of the swivel chairs, “your parents were paying me to help you get around school when you couldn’t see, you know. I’m sure your mom would be pleased that I’m stimulating the economy.”

Caitlin sat as well, facing her. She was still getting used to Bashira’s appearance. It was funny, she knew: she was looking at her as if Bash had been the one who’d changed. “So, is your dad at PI today, too?” Caitlin asked.

“Totally,” said Bashira. “He wouldn’t miss a moment with Professor Hawking.”

“Have you met him?”

“Oh, yeah.” She imitated his mechanical voice. “Even—people—who—claim—every thing—is—predestined— look—before—they—cross—the—road.”

“Cool!” said Caitlin. “I’d love to meet him.”

“Well, he’s here for a month; I’m sure you’ll get your chance. And, yes, my dear, ‘Caitlin Hawking’ does have a nice ring to it.”

“Har har,” said Caitlin. “He’s practically British royalty; he probably can’t marry outside the Anglican Church.”

Bash smiled. “I guess. You Christians all look alike to us.”

“I’m not Christian,” said Caitlin.

“You’re—you’re not? What are you?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Well, what are your parents?”

“My mom’s a Unitarian, and my dad’s a Jew.”

Bashira’s eyebrows shot up. “He is?” She’d heard that tone before: You’re Jewish? I mean, not