the plate and bowl on the table. “Play school over at Kid City from ten to twelve. Then lunch back here.”
“That’s fine. Mirabel says she’ll take her over to school.”
“Perfect.”
Dev sat down on another of the low chairs and watched Lola rip up her toast, ingest it with single-minded speed, and then start working on her egg while delivering a matter-of-fact description of her previous day. “And Mattie said he was going to bite me, and I said if he did I’d bite him, and then he cried. And I was sad. And then I drew the bike. It was black! And Mattie stole the crayon! And I chased him until Mrs. Nowata said I was making him hipe—hyper—”
“Hyperactive?” Dev said, glancing over at Marla. “Who’s Mattie?”
“Her crush for this week,” Marla said, amused, starting to peel Lola’s orange. “He’s the son of a lady who works in human resources, I think. Sweet kid, but a little fragile sometimes. They’re always hugging each other, though, those two.”
“Crushes at four?” Dev said, shaking his head and looking in wonder at his daughter. “I would have thought not until six at least.”
Marla shrugged. “Everything seems to happen faster than it used to,” she said. “She’s okay.”
“I will do the orange!” Lola announced, in a tone that brooked no refusal.
Marla chuckled and handed over the orange. “What an autocrat.”
“Just like her daddy,” Dev said, getting up.
“Oh, sure,” said Marla, in affectionate skepticism. “How’re you holding up, Dev? Three days now, is it?”
“Almost three,” he said. “One minute past midnight on June twenty-first, the night the walls between the worlds are thin.”
“Well, you hang in there and don’t let the stress thin you out,” Marla said as Dev knelt down by the chair where Lola sat.
“Have to go to work now, punkin,” Dev said. “Gimme a hug.”
Lola turned her attention from the orange, now half raggedly peeled, and gave him a most piteous and calculating look out of those big brown eyes. “You’re going to ride the bike,” she said.
“Yes, I am,” Dev said.
Lola heaved a sigh and went back to peeling the orange. “I am being very good,” she said.
Dev stood up, grinning at Marla. “You have a good day.”
“You too, Daddy Dev.”
Dev headed out, once again filled with relief that his daughter had such super people around her as Marla, Poppy, and Crazy Bob (whose nickname was apparently the result of the second of his two Ph.Ds, the one in Greek philosophy). The three of them were more like PAs for Lola than nannies, and were always on call, in shifts, ready to cover those times when neither Dev or Mirabel were able to be with her for much of the day. And Lola, thank God, loved her life. She was a sunny child, independent for her age, fascinated by the (admittedly interesting) world around her, happy at the Omnitopia preschool, and completely oblivious to who her dad was, or why it should particularly matter. This blessed state wouldn’t last forever, of course. Sooner or later, Lola would have to go out into the great world, with all the dangers that entailed; she couldn’t stay in the Omnitopia play groups and crèche forever. But right now Dev was aware that he was party to a golden time in her life—and certainly in his—when every day he could break off work when he liked and come home to play with his daughter.
However, his next chance to do that was at least eight hours away. Right now he had to get to his main place of work and start putting out brushfires, some of which would have been kindled hundreds or even thousands of miles away, and some of which might turn out to be inextinguishable. But you’ll never know if you don’t get busy. Dev headed back to the elevator in the corridor and went downstairs.
There in the main- floor elevator lobby, standing against the polished marble wall by the guard’s desk, was a big shiny black city bike with saddle baskets, old-fashioned bull’s-horn handlebars, streamers coming out of the handlebar grips, and a big shiny brass bell. The uniformed guard at the desk looked up and said, “Anything you need, Mr. Dev?”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me!” Dev said, went to the desk, grabbing a sticky pad and a pen. He scribbled on the pad. “Give that to Maurice when he comes in, okay?”
“No problem, Mr. D.”
“Thanks, Rob,” he said, and went to the bike, raising the kickstand. The glass doors of the