I must have been humming unconsciously. I feel a hot shock of embarrassment.
“I was trying to think of the words to some song Fred played me,” I say quickly. “I can’t remember more than a few words.”
My mother’s face relaxes. “I’m sure you can find it on LAMM,” she says. She reaches out and cups my chin, scans my face critically for a minute. “Did you sleep well?”
“Perfectly,” I say. I detach myself from her grip and head toward the stairs.
Downstairs, Dad is pacing the kitchen, dressed for work except for a tie. I can tell just by looking at his hair that he has been watching the news for a while. Since last fall, when the government issued its first statement acknowledging the existence of the Invalids, he insists on keeping the news running almost constantly, even when we leave the house. As he watches, he twirls his hair between his fingers.
On the news, a woman with an orange-lipstick mouth is saying, “Outraged citizens stormed the police station on State Street this morning, demanding to know how the Invalids were able to move freely through the city streets to deliver their threats. . . .”
Mr. Roth, our neighbor, is sitting at the kitchen table, spinning a mug of coffee between his palms. He is becoming a regular fixture in our house.
“Good morning, Hana,” he says without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Hi, Mr. Roth.”
Despite the fact that the Roths live across from us, and Mrs. Roth is always talking about the new clothes she has bought her older daughter, Victoria, I know that they are struggling. Neither of their children made a particularly good match, mostly because of a small scandal that attached itself to Victoria, who was rumored to have been forced into an early procedure after being caught in the streets after curfew. Mr. Roth’s career has stalled, and the signs of financial difficulty are there: They no longer use their car, although it still sits, gleaming, beyond the iron gate in the driveway. And the lights go off early; obviously, they are trying to conserve electricity. I suspect that Mr. Roth has been stopping by so much because he no longer has a working television.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as I scoot past the kitchen table.
He grunts at me in response, grabbing and twisting another bit of hair. The newscaster says, “The flyers were distributed in a dozen different areas, and were even slipped into playgrounds and elementary schools.”
The footage cuts to a crowd of protesters standing on the steps of city hall. Their signs read TAKE BACK OUR STREETS and DELIRIA-FREE AMERICA. The DFA has received an outpouring of support since its leader, Thomas Fineman, was assassinated last week. Already he is being treated as a martyr, and memorials to him have sprung up across the country.
“Why isn’t anyone doing anything to protect us?” a man is saying into a microphone. He has to shout over the noise of the other protesters. “The police are supposed to keep us safe from these lunatics. Instead they’re swarming the streets.”
I remember how frantic I was to get rid of the flyer last night, as though doing so would mean that it had never existed. But of course the Invalids didn’t target us specifically.
“It’s outrageous!” my dad explodes. I’ve seen him raise his voice only two or three times in my life, and he’s only ever totally lost it once: when they announced the names of the people who had been killed during the terrorist attacks, and Frank Hargrove—Fred’s father—was among those listed as dead. We were all watching TV in the den, and suddenly my father turned and threw his glass against the wall. It was so shocking, my mother and I could only stare at him. I’ll never forget what he said that night: Amor deliria nervosa isn’t a disease of love. It’s a disease of selfishness. “What’s the point of the National Security Administration if—”
Mr. Roth cuts in. “Come on, Rich, have a seat. You’re getting upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. These cockroaches . . .”
In the pantry, boxes of cereal and bags of coffee are lined neatly in multiples. I tuck a bag of coffee under my arm and rearrange the others so the gap isn’t noticeable. Then I grab a piece of bread and smear some peanut butter on it, even though the news has almost completely killed my hunger.
I pass back through the kitchen and am halfway down the hall before my dad turns and calls, “Where are you going?”
I angle my body away from him, so the bag of coffee isn’t visible. “I thought I’d go on a bike ride,” I say brightly.
“A bike ride?” my dad repeats.
“The wedding dress has been getting a little tight.” I gesture expressively with the folded piece of bread. “Stress eating, I guess.” At least my ability to lie hasn’t changed since my cure.
My dad frowns. “Just stay away from downtown, okay? There was an incident last night. . . .”