Zero Point: Bond

By Jordan Becket

On her first day as a freshman at the University of New Mexico, Roxanne meets Alex de Cala. He's gorgeous, Peruvian, and very mysterious. Can she trust him? He’s involved with the Order, an ancient group that guards zero point crystals, rare gems with strange powers. When her mom, her only family, contracts a deadly disease, Roxanne will have to harness the power of the crystals. Or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Becket
• Release date: Dec 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452487090

Jordan Becket

The very air in Peru feels ancient. I was raised there, always conscious of the vast history of the country in which I lived. Civilization including vast cities has existed in Peru and other parts of South America for more than five thousand years, far longer than many people think. The Norte Chico civilization, for instance, had a sophisticated urban culture contemporary with Ur in Mesopotamia, something that usually surprises people. I wish our schools were more accurate in their portrayal of the origins--plural--of human civilization. Ancient cultures can have much to teach us. In my novels I explore some of the possibilities.After an eventful childhood in Peru and later in Mexico, I came on my own to the US for my last two years of high school and then went on to Stanford University. There I flirted with Anthropology, English Lit, Philosophy, Psychology, and Materials Science before settling on the philosophy and history of Political Science. Since the timing on all this was the Big Bang of the Silicon Valley in the early 1980s, I was immediately swept into a career with Apple Computer and other movers and shakers in high technology. During my career in high technology I was privileged to work in Europe, Africa, Asia and in several states in the US, allowing me to gather locales, cultural observations, and character portraits to weave into my stories.I devour science and technology journals, books about ancient civilizations, and wildlife documentaries. But my first love is fiction, a bond that will truly last forever. My favorite authors are too many to list, but at the top are Isaac Asimov, Ursula K. LeGuin, and most recently Kristin Cashore and Deborah Harkness, for doing absolutely every single thing right.Readers may want to know that the sequel to Zero Point: Bond, called Zero Point: Backtime, is in production. I am working on the third book in the series, Zero Point: Bloodline. Each book grows in complexity, building to the finale in book four. If you like Zero Point: Bond, I hope you come along for the whole ride!

Book preview

Preface

THE DOOR CLICKED ajar. Grabbing a chair from one of the meeting areas, I eased the door open an inch or two and slipped my arm into the gap. Above the door was another motion sensor. I flipped the tiny toggle switch and cautiously pushed the door open all the way. Everything stayed dark. Excellent. Putting the chair back, I entered the lab. The only light came from refrigerated compartments at the rear and sides of the room. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see light from digital displays on other equipment reflected off several surfaces; just enough light to navigate.

I threaded my way through the obstacles, peering at tabletops and rolling carts. This was a serious lab. Controlled chaos on every surface, stacks of paperwork, Bunsen burners, a centrifuge, and what looked like an old Geiger counter. I tried one of the refrigerated compartments at the back. It was unlocked. I opened it, shuddering as its light came on fully. There were flat glass containers, like miniature Petrie dishes with lids, in stacks of ten; tiny labels on each one. I quickly scanned the closest stack. The first label read 4.2552 mol Q, the second 6.7552 mol Q. The rest of the ten had similar labels with higher values. I couldn’t fully understand the notation, but recognized that these were various molecular densities of a solution of Q, whatever that was. Zero point crystal, I hoped.

I heard a crash. Closing the refrigerator to douse the light, I quickly retraced my steps to the door. I heard more noise, then a siren. My blood froze. I had been discovered. The place was on silent alarm. I was screwed. My mother was as good as dead.

When I could breathe again, I opened the door quietly and stuck my head out. I looked toward the south, alert for any movement.

A hand clamped across my mouth. I felt a tingling sensation in my lips that extended down my jaw and upward into my sinuses. A familiar voice said softly, Shhh. Don’t worry. They’re not coming for you. It was Alex.

Part One

The existence of zero point energy is integral to modern theories of quantum mechanics.

In recent years, some scientists have come to believe that zero point energy is not just a mathematical construct, but a powerful force with major implications for gravity, astrophysics, biology, and new technology.

Chapter 1: A PhD in New School

THREE WEEKS AND two days into August, I climbed off Albuquerque’s Central Avenue bus into sunshine so sharp it made my hair hurt. Aspen leaves chattered in the breeze. The hump of Sandia Mountains stood stolidly to the east like a buffalo’s back, and ancient volcanoes crouched along the western horizon. The sky was much deeper blue than I was used to, almost the color of sapphires. I sniffed the air. Drying plants and eau du dust. Kind of pleasant; I could get used to this. I looked down at the debris at the curb. A soda can, some bits of paper, sticks and leaves. One of the sticks moved; it became a lizard.

This was the first day of my freshman year at the University of New Mexico. I was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt with a scoop neck, jeans with rhinestones on the pockets (it was, after all, a special day), and my trusty Nikes. I was a little nervous. With all our moving around I’m a pro at First Day in a New School, but college was bound to be different.

Over the last three weeks I had worked with Madelyn Soames, my high school guidance counselor, on my college situation. She was a personal friend of my mother’s and had gone out of her way for me. UNM would be pleased to welcome me in the fall, the letter said.

I wasn’t too broken up about not going to UC Berkeley. The commute would have been murder from Menlo Park near the US Geological Survey where my mother worked, across the bay to Berkeley. Our finances definitely couldn’t swing a car for me, and a ninety-minute commute by bus and rail was not my idea of adventure.

My idea of adventure is exploring new places. I’m good at it. My mom and I have moved pretty much every two years since I was a baby. I don’t remember the earliest places. My first memory is a truck stop filled with snarling big rigs on a trip from Maryland to Wyoming when I was six. After that, I have some scattered memories of life somewhere north of Seattle. Gray skies, cold wind off the ocean, stormy waters, islands plopped like chocolate cookie batter off the coast. Once I could read, every couple of years I’d find a note on the kitchen table when I got home from school or woke up in the morning. The note always started the same way: Big News! We’re moving.

When I was ten we moved to Livermore, in central California, which I remember a lot better: dryness, loud crickets, the excitement of a rattlesnake in the bathroom. In Livermore I was lonely. I never found any friends, or at least no human friends. I spent most of my time hanging out with my imaginary friend Jemmy, a very cool mountain lion who talked in my head and padded along beside me at school. Everyone gave me a wide berth, and I sometimes overheard teasing and nasty comments about me. But I didn’t care. Jemmy and I mostly stayed home reading. We also spent weeks on my rock and mineral collection, labeling it carefully and arraying each specimen on shelves of my bookcase, then sealing each shelf with plastic wrap, pretending it was a glass display case. I talked with Jemmy constantly, regardless of how people made fun. He was my only friend.

After Lawrence Livermore Labs my mom took a guest lecturer position with MIT that lasted through my early teen years. Though Jemmy made the move with us, he disappeared shortly after we arrived. In Cambridge I had a huge group of friends. A pack of us would run through echoing halls at MIT after hours, conducting complicated scavenger hunts involving math and common household items. When we rode the subway, the T, we took it over like we owned it. We made lots of noise, shot soda at each other, generally were a pain in the butt to all the other passengers. I loved my time in Cambridge.

But we moved on when I was fifteen. To Menlo Park, home of the US Geological Survey, where I started all over. New school, new friends, new life. And now we’ve moved on again. About a month ago I came downstairs to a sticky note on the kitchen table that said:

Big News! We’re moving to New Mexico!

I want to be clear, here. It’s not that my mom is a flake. She’s just not practical. At all. She’s a brilliant scientist, sort of the Madame Curie of Geology. Her specialty is nano-geology, and she has three PhDs. One in Physics, one in Materials Science, and another in Geology.

The local paper in Menlo Park ran an article on her when Sandia Labs recruited her. I guess it was a pretty big deal. The article said, Dr. Helena Wyatt, one of the world’s leading nanoscientists, will head research into the physics of crystalline structures at the sub-atomic level. Dr. Wyatt’s work applies to the burgeoning fields of nanotechnology, optics, and quantum computing.

I don’t know what half of that means, but you get the idea. She’s a card-carrying science geek.

But she’s beautiful, which no one ever expects. Her skin seems to shimmer like pearls, and she’s slender, with smoky-green eyes. Her every move is graceful, like a spill of satin. And she’s only five feet five so she doesn’t have to look at the tops of everyone’s heads the way I do. But, like I said, she’s completely incapable of doing ordinary things, like cooking or housework.

So that means I have to be the practical one.

We never talk about the moving thing. To us it’s normal. Though I know things weren’t always that way. When I was little my parents lived in South America, in central Peru, for quite a few years. But that was when my father was alive.

Now, we just scrape by. Because despite—or maybe because of—her scientific brilliance, she refuses to play politics as she puts it, and funding is hard to get. Truth be told, she hates everything to do with money. Asking for it, especially. Plus her specialty is so obscure that few people understand it. So we go where the money is easiest. Piggy-backing on other people’s grants, a visiting professorship (provided she doesn’t have to beg for the job), an advisory position in a scientific project, that kind of thing. She focuses on the science. I squeeze our budget to fit her income.

So naturally I didn’t even consider going to UC Berkeley on my own. I couldn’t stay in California without my mother. She would starve, huddling in the dark, without me. And what was one more brand new place. I was great at brand new places. Great at First Day at a New School.

I walked from the bus stop farther into the UNM campus along a macadam path. There were trees everywhere, pines to my right, aspens on my left. Under the aspens the ground was dappled with coin-sized shadows that danced.

The path curved to the right, and I heard water ahead. As I crested a small rise I saw a landscaped area. A fountain jetted into the sunlight, diamonds cascading into a pool of water. A wooden bridge about six feet wide arched from side to side. Ducks frolicked on one side, tossing water from their broad bills onto each other’s backs. I stopped in the middle of the bridge to admire the scene.

Watch out! A voice called out behind me. It was deep, and rumbled within me like thunder on a grassy plain. A tall guy on a bicycle skidded to a stop next to me on the bridge.

The eight books and two notebooks I’d been carrying exploded out of my arms and landed on the wooden slats.

You watch out! I said hotly.

One notebook landed open. Wind licked its pages, flipping them quickly. In a moment or two it would be pulled over the edge into the water. I snatched it up, grabbing two books at the same time. One book skittered back out of my arms onto the bridge.

The boy chuckled. I felt my ears burn, and tucked my head down so I didn’t have to look at him. What a jerk, I thought. He leaned his bike on the bridge railing and squatted beside me.

Here, he said. Gently, he tugged the sleeve of my shirt so both my arms were parallel, making a shelf for the books. One by one, he stacked each book carefully in my arms.

Are you okay? he asked. I looked up.

I had been so busy covering my embarrassment, I hadn’t really seen him before. His hair was dark like mine, fine and soft around his face. His skin was the sort of pale golden color people call olive, with sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose that reminded me of Michelangelo’s David. The wind tossed his hair into a dark halo around his face, lit with gold by the sun. His eyes were huge, the deepest blue I’d ever seen, crinkled a little at the corners. He was at least twenty, maybe older.

Sure, I said, pretending to still be a little miffed. A clump of air seemed to be stuck in my chest, keeping me from breathing.

As he placed the last book in my outstretched arms, an amused quirk played at the edge of his mouth.

You find this funny? I said, annoyed again. I stood up. I plastered the books securely to my chest, wrecking his careful stacking job.

He looked startled, then his face got serious. No, not funny at all. Sorry. And sorry about almost hitting you. Are you sure you’re okay? He stood up.

He was well over six feet tall, probably six-six. I actually had to look upward at him, not a usual experience for me. His eyes were a clear dark blue, like lapis lazuli. Sweat popped into the palms of my hands.

He waited calmly for my response. Yeah, I’m fine, I managed.

One eyebrow raised itself into a mischievous curve over one eye. The edges of his mouth tilted upward into a grin. Without another word, he hopped back on his bike and was gone.

My breathing started again, as the shock began to wear off. Wow, I thought. Double wow. Triple, quadruple and whatever-comes-after-that wow. I realized my mouth was hanging open. I blinked twice, hard.

Once I could see again, I spotted the sign for the Administration building a little farther down the path. But I should have been able to tell it was my destination even without the sign. Bicycles choked the racks in front. There was constant jostling as kids deposited bicycles on their way in and grabbed them from the rack to leave. Knots of students turned to look briefly as I passed. I strode up the three steps and through the double doors.

The registration room was large, with high ceilings. The ductwork was exposed, festooned with ribbons that spiraled merrily under the air conditioning vents. Milling crowds filled the entrance area, making it slow going. I wove my way through exuberant reunions, shy new meetings, giggling groups, and scared-looking loners. Voices echoed against the ceiling.

When I reached the middle of the room, the crowd thinned and I could walk more normally. Just ahead, signs were hung from the high ceiling over a row of tables. I got into the line at the Freshmen, W to Z sign, feeling awkward.

Almost immediately, a girl got in line behind me. Hi, I’m Kathy Ward, she said, sticking out her hand. She was almost my complete opposite: bouncy, blond, petite, wearing nicely-pressed khaki pants and bright yellow blouse. The picture of feminine charms. A cheerleader in high school, I thought involuntarily, admiring her perfect khaki trousers, not a stain in sight. Not a look I’d ever achieve. I’m not all that neat.

Roxanne Wyatt. Call me Rox, I replied, as we shook hands gravely. My mother’s a geologist—her idea of a joke, I added.

Rox. Rocks. Got it. Well, you’re lucky. Could have been Crystal. She laughed. Where are you from?

Though we’d only arrived three days ago, I’d already noticed this was everyone’s first question in Albuquerque, where most people are from somewhere else. For me it was a hard question to answer. Way too much information if I talked about all the places I’d lived, but a little dishonest if I didn’t.

Most recently I’m from Northern California, but we’ve moved around a lot, I said, trying to be both accurate and brief.

Cool, she said. I love California people.

I sighed inwardly. I’d only lived in California for a couple of years and wasn’t by any stretch a Californian. I really hate lying, even by omission.

The line was moving slowly. Um, where did you go to high school? I asked.

Albuquerque High School. Go, Bulldogs! she said, raising an imaginary pom-pom.

You were a cheerleader? I asked.

Yeah, but now I hate sports. They’re so boring. I quit the squad senior year. Of course it was social suicide, she said, with a laugh. But no matter. Now I’ve decided to get rid of the cheerleader thing altogether. My style has to change completely. Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown and she looked so serious, I couldn’t help but laugh. She looked up at me and grinned.

I’m not big on sports either, I said. I run every other day, but games don’t really interest me. Of course, being a foot taller than everyone else I got drafted into basketball every season. Until they figured out I’m just not athletic. My hands and feet are too big or something.

She brandished an imaginary pompom and pronounced, No more sports! No more sports! A couple of kids ahead of us turned around and rolled their eyes.

So what are you taking? I asked her. We swapped pre-registration sheets.

All the English I can get, she commented while I read hers. Looking at mine, she said, And you must really like science. Geology 101 and Geology 223 at the same time.

101 is a core course, required for majors. But you’re right, I’m into science. I guess it’s kind of automatic, with my mother and all.

Right. Say, I have a science requirement to get out of the way, so I picked Bio 101. But maybe Geology 101 would be easier? I don’t care what science it is, just to get it over with as soon as possible. She looked up at me quickly. Oh, sorry, that came out wrong. No offense.

Zero offense. And you’re right, I think Geology might be easier than Bio. They’ll probably let you switch. It’s an overview course, so it’ll be huge. I smiled. I’d love to know at least one person in class.

Her face lit up. It’s a deal, then! She said, grabbing my arm to spin me around. Using my back as a desk, I felt her cross out the entry on her class schedule, scratch in the new entry.

Wow, she said. How tall are you, anyway?

Six feet, plus a half-inch when I measured last, I said. I just hope that’s it. We both laughed.

Classes started the next day. Geology 101 was first; I was a little late. I opened the right side of the double doors, not knowing what to expect, and looked into large auditorium. Steeply-tiered seating descended in a bowl shape, with flat wings at either side containing tables and lab equipment. At the front was a stage for lectures, with a table for lab demonstrations.

I saw Kathy about halfway down the bowl of seats, so I set off down the stairs. Hundreds of eyes pricked at the back of my neck, following my progress. I folded myself into the seat next to Kathy, making way too much noise in the process. My cheeks were beet red.

Good view from here, said Kathy with a grin. I noticed with a shock that we were two rows behind the golden, book-stacking Adonis from the day before. Several other girls were looking in his direction. I sighed softly. Trust me to go all soft and squishy over someone every girl would lust after.

Kathy leaned over to whisper in my ear. His name is Alex de Cala. Friend of my mother’s. Or rather, his grandfather is—he’s some sort of consultant for the law firm she works for, and I know she’s mentioned Alex to me a couple of times. I’ve only met him twice, I think. But I know he’s a TA here, working on his PhD. I could see his right hand on the arm rest. A beam of light from the skylight above brushed the back of his hand with gold.

I felt a pang of disappointment. Getting his PhD. Dang, he must be 23 or 24 if not even older, I thought. Trust me to be attracted to someone who wouldn’t be remotely interested in someone seventeen, still living at home.

Di Carlo. Is he Italian? I asked

De Cala, not Di Carlo. Not Italian. He’s from here. Part old Spanish, part Pueblo Indian from what I hear. So, a real New Mexican mix. There’s also some sort of South America somehow, but I don’t know anything about that. She grinned. His family has supposedly lived up near Burned Mountain for centuries. But there’s no Pueblo there, so I don’t know if that’s true."

My eyes lingered on his hands. They were strong, the fingers long and squared at the ends, the palm broad. Competent-looking hands.

As we waited for the professor, a dull drone of conversation filled the auditorium. I settled into my seat, tucking my legs over to the left so my knees wouldn’t bump the row in front.

Kathy rooted around in the enormous beach bag she used as a purse. Where are you? Dang, there’s too much crap in here. Oh, here you are… She brandished an unfamiliar manicure tool in the air in triumph. Then she started buffing her nails, extending her arm to check them in the light, then buffing some more. I watched in fascination. The whole girly thing has pretty much escaped me, but I can recognize a master at work.

The noise level dropped suddenly. I looked up. A tall man with wavy gray hair swept onto the central stage. My first class at UNM had begun.

That evening I looked up Alex de Cala online. He had a page on Facebook, but he hadn’t filled it out with details or a picture, and hadn’t friended more than a couple dozen people. That meant he was a private person, so Twitter was definitely out.

I browsed further: he’d written a couple of articles in a prestigious geology journal. One was on crystalline structures in high-altitude rock formations that looked interesting. The other was on refractive qualities of quartz, also very technical. But I couldn’t get the full text on either because membership was required to see more than the first paragraph.

The Albuquerque Journal archives had an article about Alex from the previous fall. Apparently he was on loan from the University of San Marcos in Lima, Peru. The article mentioned his family in Burned Mountain. Pretty much what Kathy had said, except she hadn’t known which country in South America. Peru. Land of the Incas, stone cities clinging to mountain tops, condors circling to flute music. How exotic.

I looked up Burned Mountain. It was in northern New Mexico near the Colorado border. Elevations were even higher there than in Albuquerque—most of Burned Mountain was over 10,000 feet, with nearby Wheeler Peak over 13,000. Hence his interest in crystal structures at high elevations. I kept searching for a few more minutes, getting into the spirit of the thing. Maybe I’d quit geology, become a private detective.

After a few more minutes, I’d done enough cyber-stalking for one night. I shut down the laptop, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

Chapter 2: Christmas in September

THE FRONTIER RESTAURANT is a student hangout across from campus.. It’s always packed. There are nine stations for ordering food with about sixty people on duty at all times. But still, a long line snakes around the restaurant. Signs hang from the ceiling at different points along the way to tell you how long the wait is to get your order in. A lot of jostling happens, some line jumping. Surprisingly little friction.

Kathy had suggested we go for some chips and salsa, and to mingle, as she put it. By the end of September I knew that even though she was way more gregarious than I was, she seemed to put up with my somewhat taciturn nature without complaint.

There had been a cold snap overnight, and everyone had bundled up that day. We deposited our coats on a rack in the entryway, my purple parka looking odd in the assortment of black leather, denim, and earth tones. Then we joined the line for order entry. Soon we were up to the 10 MIN. WAIT FROM HERE sign.

So I think I’m going to declare a History major, instead, Kathy told me, as we shuffled forward. Over the past two weeks she had cut her blond hair short, gelled it, and added a blue streak. Her hair no longer bounced, but she still had a ways to go to eradicate her cheerleader image.

History’s great, I said in support, dodging a duo absorbed in conversation.

But Kathy didn’t seem to hear me; instead, she grabbed my arm and charged across the room, abandoning our place in line, ignoring the people ahead of us who said Hey! as we passed. I blushed to the roots of my hair and kept repeating Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, as I followed in her wake.

Coming through! she proclaimed, swimming upstream amid people on their way back to their tables with food. Tomás! she said, waving.

A slender dark-haired boy farther up the line looked up, waved back. Yo. Kathy! His face lit, flashing teeth in a broad grin. He had a sculpted nose that had been broken at least once, a pointed chin, and black hair that framed his face in feathers. Up close, his face seemed sad, deep grooves on either side of his mouth. But when he looked at Kathy, the sunrise of his smile changed his face completely. I realized that he was the real reason we had come to the Frontier Restaurant.

Tomás de la Plata, Roxanne Wyatt, said Kathy. Tomás is in my Latin American History class, she said.

I mumbled hello. I was still jockeying for personal space with several people.

Tomás—never Tom. I insist, he said. He barked a laugh. Gotta keep you Anglos in line.

Tomás is a real New Mexican, said Kathy.

Endangered species around here, Tomás said.

Before I could respond, a girl who was passing me on the way back to her seat got bumped by someone else. I should have known better than to wear khaki pants. When I wear something light-colored, food sees me coming and launches itself at me. Sure enough, a bowl of guacamole on the girl’s tray sailed in my direction, flipped, dive-bombed my pants, made a long green streak, and landed with a plop on my sneaker. Oops, was all she could say as the crowd closed around her, pulling her away.

Kathy handed me a napkin, laughing. You and food, Rox, she said. One accident after another.

At least I’m consistent, I said, massaging clumps of guacamole deeper into my pants with the tiny napkin. Kathy and Tomás kept a patter going as I dabbed at the mess.

At last, the three of us trouped over to one of the order stations.

You mind if I order? said Tomás. Kathy and I had no objection, though I was a little worried that my share of whatever he ordered would be bigger than the few rumpled bills in my pocket.

Roxanne’s a vegetarian, did I tell you, Tomás?

I mumbled something, embarrassed.

Then let’s get chicken and cheese enchiladas to share. New Mexico-style. Okay? Roxanne can eat the cheese one, said Tomás, not waiting for our response. Kathy looked over at him adoringly. I busied myself with a fresh napkin, feeling like a third wheel. Tomás ordered the enchiladas.

Red or green? I heard the order-taker ask Tomás. Red or green what? Maybe I’d missed part of the conversation.

Christmas, answered Tomás, confusing me further. I had been sure the two of them had been speaking English.

Tomás took pity on me. Here in New Mexico we have red chile sauce and green chile sauce. In restaurants they always ask which you want—it’s traditional. Red is generally not as hot, green has jalapeños and cilantro. You like cilantro?

I have no idea, I replied. I had sampled Mexican food in California, but was no expert.

No matter. You’ll see. Either you love cilantro or you hate it.

But what’s Christmas? I insisted. It’s only September…

Tomás laughed. When you order Christmas, that’s red and green sauce on the same plate. I figured that way you get to try both. All right with you? He grinned.

I’m all about challenge, I said.

A huge plate of food appeared within two minutes. The restaurant staffer warned us gravely that the plate was very hot. He wasn’t kidding; the platter-sized plate sizzled.

I eyed the three corn tortillas, flat instead of rolled, piled with meat, spackled with cheese. The plate swam in sauce: half red, half green as promised. Super-melted cheese had separated into pools of reddish or greenish grease. It didn’t look all that appetizing. Though it smelled great.

Tomás carried the tray with the enchiladas and a napkin nest of extra corn tortillas to a booth by the window. I carried a stack of smaller plates. Kathy had the napkins and silverware. I scooted along the left bench seat to the window, leaving room for Kathy, but Tomás took Kathy’s arm with a proprietary air and led her into the other side with a gallant flourish. Then he climbed in beside her and placed the platter in the center of the table with obvious pride.

Very decorative, I said, dealing one smaller plate to each of us. Kathy scooped up an enchilada and put it on his plate, smiling at him. I wondered if I should leave, let them have some privacy.

So where are you from? Tomás asked. I gave him my standard answer about not being from anywhere in particular but just having moved from California.

Ah, California, he said. A lotta people move here from there. That, and Texas. I prefer California people. He returned his focus to Kathy. Smiling, he dabbed a little red salsa from the corner of her mouth. I felt even more like a third wheel. Maybe I’ll make some excuse and head on out, I thought. Then Kathy looked over at me, eyes wide. I realized she’d asked