The following Saturday, at four-thirty, the doorbell rang.
I was lying on the couch reading Lia The Wizard of Oz, the eighth or ninth chapter (I’d lost count and wasn’t admitting it). Kira was at work — at the Academy, with Noma, where their small group was working through the consequences of plunging sensitivity in five-year-olds, whose statistics over the last quarter had begun to alarm every curator. Kira had promised to be back in Moscow by seven.
Lia looked at the door. Looked at me.
— It’s for you.
— Why for me?
— Because of the signatures, — said Lia calmly. — I don’t know the person. You do.