“That's very reassuring,” I said. “Would you mind watching me get off the elevator?”

For a moment I thought he did mind, and he moved his claw to the keyboard again. But then he remembered that it hadn't worked out too well before to poke it without looking, so he glanced down, punched a button, and looked up at me as the cheerful voice said, “Motherfucker,” in a tone that made it sound like, “Jelly doughnut.” But at least he moved aside slightly so I could get by.

“Thank you,” I said, and because I am sometimes not a very kind person, I added, “And I will put it on your desk. Black with two sugars. Have a nice day.” I stepped past him and headed down the hall, but I could feel his eyes on me all the way down to my cubicle.

THE ORDEAL OF THE WORKING DAY HAD BEEN nightmarish enough, from being stranded without doughnuts in the morning all the way through to the terrifying encounter with what was left of Sergeant Doakes, the vocally enhanced version. Even so, none of this prepared me for the shock of arriving home.

I'd been hoping for the warm and fuzzy glow of a good meal and some down time with Cody and Astor my adopted children perhaps a game of Kick the Can out in the yard before dinner. But as I pulled up and parked at Rita's house —now my house, too, which took some getting used to —I was surprised to see the two small tousled heads sitting in the front yard, apparently waiting for me. Since I knew full well that SpongeBob was on TV right now, I could not imagine what would make them do this. So it was with a growing sense of alarm that I climbed out of my car and approached them.

“Greetings, citizens,” I said. They stared at me with a matched set of mournful looks, but said nothing. That was to be expected from Cody, who never spoke more than four words at a time. But for Astor, it was alarming, since she had inherited her mother's talent for circular breathing, which allowed them both to talk without pausing for air. To see her sit there without speaking was almost unprecedented. So I switched languages and tried again.

“What up, yo?” I asked them.

“Poop van,” said Cody. Or at any rate, that's what I thought I heard. But since none of my training had prepared me to respond to anything remotely like that, I looked over at Astor, hoping for some hint about how I should react.

“Mom said we get to have pizza but it's the poop van for you, and we didn't want you to go away, so we came out here to warn you. You're not going away, are you, Dexter?” It was a small relief to know that I had heard Cody right, even though that now meant that I had to make sense of “poop van'. Had Rita really said that? Did it mean that I had done something very bad that I didn't know about? That didn't seem fair —I liked to remember and enjoy it when I do something bad. And one day after the honeymoon —wasn't that just a little abrupt?

“As far as I know, I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “Are you sure that's what your mom said?” They nodded in unison and Astor said, “Uh-huh. She said you'd be surprised.”

“She was right,” I said, and it really didn't seem fair. I was totally at a loss. “Come on,” I said. “We'll go tell her I'm not going.” They each took one of my hands and we went inside.

The air inside the house was filled with a tantalizing aroma, strangely familiar and yet exotic, as if you sniffed a rose and instead smelled pumpkin pie. It was coming from the kitchen, so I led my small troop in that direction.

“Rita?” I called out, and the clatter of a pan answered me.

“It's not ready,” she said. “It's a surprise.” As we all know, surprise is usually ominous, unless it is your birthday —and even then, there are no guarantees. But I pushed bravely into the kitchen anyway, and found Rita wearing an apron and fussing over the stove, a lock of blonde hair falling unnoticed down across her forehead.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“What? No, of course not. Why would— damn it!” she said, sticking a singed finger into her mouth, and then stirring the contents of the pan furiously.

“Cody and Astor say you're sending me away,” I said.

Rita dropped her stirring spoon and looked at me with an expression of alarm. “Away? That's silly, I— why would I ...” She bent to pick up the spoon and jumped to the skillet to stir again.

“So you didn't call the poop van?” I said.

“Dexter,” she said, with a certain amount of stress in her voice, “I am trying to make you a special meal, and I'm working very hard not to ruin it. Can this please wait until later?” And she jumped to the counter and grabbed a measuring cup, and then rushed back to the skillet.

“What are you making?” I said.

“You liked the food so much in Paris,” she said, frowning and slowly stirring in whatever was in the measuring cup.

I almost always like the food,” I said.

“So I wanted to make you a nice French meal,” she said. “Coq au vin.” She said it with her best Bad French accent, caca van, and a very small light bulb came on in my head.

“Caca van?” I said, and I looked at Astor.

She nodded. “Poop van,” she said.

“Damn it!” said Rita again, this time trying vainly to stick a burned elbow into her mouth.

“Come along, children,” I said in a Mary Poppins voice. “I'll explain it outside.” And I led them through the house, down the hall, and out into the backyard. We sat together on the step and they both looked at me expectantly.

“All right,” I said. “Caca van is just a misunderstanding.” Astor shook her head. Since she knew absolutely everything, a misunderstanding was not possible. “Anthony said that caca means poop in Spanish,” she said with certainty. “And everybody knows what a van is.”

“But coq au vin is French,” I said. “It's something your mother and I learned about in France.” Astor shook her head, a little doubt showing on her face.

“Nobody speaks French,” she said.

“Several people speak it in France,” I said. “And even over here, some people like your mother think they speak it.”

“So what is it?” she asked.

“It's chicken,” I said.

They looked at each other, then back at me. Oddly enough, it was Cody who broke the silence. “Do we still get pizza?” he asked.

“I'm pretty sure you do,” I said. “So how about rounding up a team for Kick the Can?”

Cody whispered something to Astor, and she nodded. “Can you teach us stuff? You know, the other stuff?” she said.

The “other stuff she referred to was, of course, the Dark Lore that went with training to be Dexter's Disciples. I had discovered recently that the two of them, because of the repeated trauma of life with their biological father, who regularly beat them with furniture and small appliances, had both turned into what can only be described as My Children. Dexter's Descendants.

They were as permanently scarred as I was, forever twisted away from fuzzy puppy reality and into the sunless land of wicked pleasure. They were far too eager to begin playing fiendish games, and the only safe way out for them was through me and onto the Harry Path.

Truthfully, it would be a very real delight to conduct a small lesson tonight, as a baby step back in the direction of resuming my “normal life', if one could apply such an expression to my existence. The honeymoon had strained my imitations of polite behavior beyond all their previous limits, and I was ready to slither back into the shadows and polish my fangs. Why not bring the children along?

All right,” I said. “Go get some kids for Kick the Can, and I'll show you something you can use.”

“By playing Kick the Can?” Astor said with a pout. “We don't want to know that.”

“Why do I always win when we play Kick the Can?” I asked them.

“You don't,” Cody said.

“Sometimes I let one of you win,” I said loftily.