Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Fifty-Three

The stew turned out nice, punchy from the Worcestershire and paprika, and the potatoes kept their shape. I always had to thread the needle with root vegetables; Granny got incensed if they required too much force from her dentures, but the kids would cry, "Ew, gross!" if either the potatoes or carrots were mushy.

I was just containerizing leftovers when the doorbell rang.

I walked to the door like a boxer in the middle rounds, dragging but with hard-trained reserves still available.

It was Quaid and Piper Jackson.

"Where y'been?" the former asked. "We haven't seen you for two days. Durwood's worried sick you're going to lose your base tan."

I gestured back behind me. "I really needed to catch up here. Zach, Karen, the floors..."

As if buttressing my excuse, a crash sounded upstairs. It had the chipping tinks of glass, but ended heavily. A bed falling through its frame?

I pivoted to go check—the boxer answering the bell—but Quaid caught my wrist.

"Nope," he said. "You and I have a date."

I crimped my brow at the word, which seemed from a different era—for me, for the world.

"Thanks. I can't, though. With the kids, and today I just realized Granny—"

"Kids are accounted for." He extended his arm theatrically toward Piper. "I brought a babysitter."

The hacker didn't looked thrilled with the label, but stepped inside nonetheless. I opened my shoulders to consider my kids, who'd come downstairs at visitors. Zach and Piper weren't so different in size.

She and I had come a long way since Shop-All. Piper had joined the Third Chance effort fully, embracing the mission to thwart Rivard. I had no qualms trusting her with the kids.

But did I trust them with her?

Hedging, I said, "I—okay, I'll just finish cleaning up dinner."

"Go, I know how to load a dishwasher," Piper said. "What time they bed down, ten?"

Quaid had fetched my purse from the coffee table jumble and was looping it over my shoulder.

"Ten would be fine," I found myself saying, drifting onto the porch. "Karen should read for twenty minutes, and ideally Zach—"

"Zach'll be busy." Piper started the door closing. "Every teen should know how to code a simple bubble sort."

Before I could ask what a bubble sort was or caution her about Zach's "combative learning style" (his principal's term), Quaid was ushering me into the Vanagon.

I asked where we were going.

Quaid moved a bazooka gallantly from the passenger seat to the floorboard. "Same place everybody goes on a date. The movies!"

I felt weightless as we pulled away from the house, like a plaster cast of my shoulders was being lifted off and evaporated. Quaid drove east through dark stoplights and past abandoned cars, some ablaze, making liberal use of the horn.

He updated me on goings-on at CitySun. The kernel handoff was still on for Thursday. They'd all gone on a scouting trip to the rock quarry where it was to occur—a sandy, open space where neither side would be able to conceal much.

By and large, Quaid had been enjoying the Mice. Hatch he found a particular delight. He'd advised the giant Libertarian to run for city council—if and when popular elections resumed.