Mary’s eyebrows went up. “Really? But he was so young…”

“Thirty-five, I’m told,” said Qaiser.

“What happened?”

“There was a fire, and…” She paused, and Mary could hear her swallowing hard. “And there wasn’t much left, apparently.”

Mary struggled to find a response. At last an “Oh” escaped her lips.

“Did you—do you want to come to the memorial service? It’s going to be on Friday, here in Toronto.”

Mary didn’t have to think about that. “No. No, I really didn’t know him,” she said. I really didn’t know him at all.

“Well, okay, I understand,” said Qaiser. “I just thought we should inform you.”

Mary wanted to tell Qaiser that she should sleep peacefully, now that the man who had raped her—who had raped both of them—was dead, but…

But Mary wasn’t supposed to be aware of Qaiser’s rape. Her mind was reeling; she’d find some way to eventually let Qaiser know. “I do appreciate the call. Sorry I can’t make it.”

They said their goodbyes, and Mary placed the handset in its cradle. Bandra had returned the La-Z-Boy to its upright position. “Who was that?”

Mary walked over to Bandra and extended her arms, helping Bandra to her feet. She then pulled Bandra close to her.

“Are you all right?” asked Bandra.

Mary hugged her tight. “I’m fine,” she said.

Bandra said, “You’re crying.” She couldn’t see Mary’s face, which was nestled into her shoulder; perhaps she smelled the salt in the tears.

“Don’t worry,” said Mary softly. “Just hold me.”

And Bandra did precisely that.

Ponter and Adikor had been spending a lot of time at the United Nations, advising a committee that was trying to decide whether to continue construction of the new, permanent portal between UN headquarters and the corresponding site on Donakat Island. After all, if men couldn’t use it, some were arguing, then all work should be abandoned. Louise Benoît had been appointed to the same committee.

Laurentian University, of course, took a Christmas break—meaning that Mary and Bandra were free for the holidays. And so they’d decided to fly down to New York to spend New Year’s Eve with Louise, Ponter, and Adikor in Times Square.

“It’s incredible!” said Bandra, shouting to be heard above the crowd. “How many people are here?”

“They usually get half a million,” said Mary.

Bandra looked around. “Half a million! I don’t think there have ever been half a million Barasts together in one place.”

“So,” said Ponter, “why do you celebrate the new year on this date? It’s not a solstice or an equinox.”

“Um,” said Louise, “I honestly don’t know. Mary?”

Mary shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.” She sought Louise’s eyes, tried to imitate her accent above the din. “But any day’s a good day to par-tay!” But a smile was too much to hope for; it was still much too soon.

“So what’s going to happen tonight?” asked Adikor.

Everything was bathed in a neon glow. “See that building over there?” said Mary, pointing.

Adikor and Ponter nodded.

“That used to be the headquarters of the New York Times newspaper—that’s why this is called Times Square. Anyway, see the flagpole on top? It’s seventy-seven feet tall. A giant ball, weighing a thousand pounds, will be lowered down that pole starting precisely at 11:59P.M. , and it will take exactly sixty seconds to reach the bottom. When it does, that’s the beginning of the new year, and a big fireworks display will begin.” Mary held up a bag; they’d each received one, compliments of the Times Square Business Improvement District. “Now, when the ball hits the bottom—well, you’re supposed to kiss your loved ones first, and shout ‘Happy New Year.’ But you’re also supposed to toss the contents of your bag into the air. It’s full of little bits of paper called confetti.”

Adikor shook his head. “It’s a complex ritual.”

“It sounds delightful!” said Bandra. “I think we—astonishment! Astonishment!”

“What?” said Mary.

Bandra pointed. “It’s us!”

Mary turned. One of the giant video screens was showing Bandra and Mary. As Mary watched—it was quite a thrill!—the image panned left, catching Ponter and Adikor. After a moment, though, the picture switched to New York’s mayor, waving at the crowd. Mary turned back to the others.

“Our presence has not gone unnoticed,” she said, smiling.

Ponter laughed. “Oh, we are used to that!”

“You come here every year?” asked Adikor.

A light snow was falling, and Mary’s breath was visible as she spoke. “Me? I’ve never been here before—but I watch it on TV each year, along with about 300 million other people worldwide. It’s quite the tradition.”

“What time is it now?” asked Ponter.

Mary looked at her watch; there was plenty of neon light to see the display by. “Just past 11:30,” she said.

“Oooh!” said Bandra, pointing again. “Now it’s Lou’s turn!”

The giant screen had a tight close-up on Louise’s beautiful face, and she smiled enchantingly at seeing herself on the big screen. There were howls of appreciation from tens of thousands of males. Well, Pamela Anderson Lee had gotten her start on a Jumbotron, too…

The monitor changed to show Dick Clark, in a black silk jacket, standing on a wide stage, surrounded by hundreds of pink and clear balloons. “Hello, world!” he shouted, and then, amending himself with a giant, perfect grin: “Hello, worlds! ”

The crowd cheered. Mary clapped her mittened hands together.

“Welcome back to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve! ”

More cheering. All around them, people were waving little American flags that had been given out along with the confetti bags.

“It’s been an amazing year,” said Clark. “A year that saw us meet up with our long-lost cousins, the Neanderthals.” The screen changed to show a close-up of Ponter, who took a second to spot the camera, then waved gamely, Hak’s nice new faceplate sparkling in the neon rainbow.

A chant went up from the crowd. “Pon- ter! ” “Pon- ter! ” “Pon- ter! ”

Mary felt as though her heart were going to burst with pride. Dick Clark kept things moving along, though. “Tonight, in addition to the biggest bands from this world, Krik Donalt is going to perform his number-one hit ‘Two Becoming One’ live in our Hollywood studio. But, right now, we’ll—sir, sir, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

Mary looked at the giant screen, baffled. Clark was alone on the stage.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re on the air here,” said Clark to empty space. He turned and shouted, “Matt, can we get this clown out of here?”

There was a murmur through the crowd. Whatever bit Clark was trying clearly wasn’t working. Indeed, Bandra leaned in to Mary and said, “He’s bombing…”

Suddenly, a man whose back had been to them turned—a tricky feat, given that the crowd was packed like cord-wood—and looking right at Ponter, he said, “My God, it’s you! It’s you!”

Ponter smiled politely. “Yes, I—”

But the man, eyes wide, pushed Ponter aside, and said again, “It’s you! It’s you!” He seemed intent on making his way through the crowd, and, for the most part, it was parting to allow him to do so.

“Jesus!” shouted a woman beside Bandra, but Mary couldn’t see what had upset her so. She turned back to look at the man who had pushed past Ponter and, to her astonishment, she saw him go to his knees.

Dick Clark’s voice emanated from the speakers again, sounding panicky. “I can’t do this with him here!”