“I’m sorry,” said Fat Charlie. It was what he had always said, growing up, when his father was mentioned.

“No, no, no,” said the former basilisk. “Nothing to apologize for. I was just wondering. Your father. In case we need to get in touch with him—we don’t have a telephone number or an address on file. I should have asked him last night, but it completely got away from me.”

“I don’t think he has a phone number,” said Fat Charlie. “And the best way to find him is to go to Florida, and to drive up Highway A1A—that’s the coast road that runs up most of the east of the state. In the afternoon you may find him fishing off a bridge. In the evening he’ll be in a bar.”

“Such a charming man,” she said, wistfully. “What does he do?”

“I told you. He says it’s the miracle of the loafs and the fishes.”

She stared at him blankly, and he felt stupid. When his father said it, people would laugh. “Um. Like in the Bible. The miracle of the loaves and the fishes. Dad used to say that he loafs and fishes, and it’s a miracle that he still makes money. It was a sort of joke.”

A misty look. “Yes. He told the funniest jokes.” She clucked her tongue, and once more was all business. “Now, I need you back here at five-thirty.”

“Why?”

“To pick up your mother. And her belongings. Didn’t Dr. Johnson tell you we were discharging her?”

“You’re sending her home?”

“Yes, Mr. Nancy.”

“What about the, about the cancer?”

“It seems to have been a false alarm.”

Fat Charlie couldn’t understand how it could have been a false alarm. Last week they’d been talking about sending his mother to a hospice. The doctor had been using phrases like “weeks not months” and “making her as comfortable as possible while we wait for the inevitable.”