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hat, a scarf, and gloves, and he insists I choose from a Premium selection hanging in the women’s department. I can’t look at Quinn as he pays for everything, as the simpering cashier swipes his father’s card.
    “I’m nervous about leaving the pod. I didn’t think I would be,” I admit on our way back to the station. “No air? It’ll be so strange.”
    “Don’t worry. Look, with all these terrorist attacks, we might find we’re better off out there anyway. And if we’re going to suffocate, wouldn’t it be fun to suffocate together?” He pinches me lightly, trying to put some humor between me and my fear. But what he doesn’t realize is that I would want to be with him at the end. If I were to die, I’d rather die out there with him than in the pod with anyone else.

6
QUINN
    “My clever boy!” my mother announces, throwing her arms around me as soon as I get home. I pull away, embarrassed.
    “Hey,” I manage. My father steps forward and claps me on the back. “I’m here!” I say, knowing my homecoming can’t possibly be the reason for their sudden interest in me.
    As I walk into the living room, I see immediately what’s going on: standing with one hand behind his back and one holding a glass of something is the Pod Minister, Cain Knavery. During the interview on the tram screen a couple of hours ago, he’d looked serious and purposeful. Now he looks jolly. Jolly-well drunk. He’s standing next to the mantelpiece where, I notice, my parents have taken down our old oil painting of a seascape and put up a portrait of the Pod Minister in its place, so that Cain Knavery looks like he is standing next to himself. They replace the artwork, as well as their personalities, whenever he visits.
    “Ha-ha! He has arrived. Well now, Caffrey Junior,” the Pod Minister says, and stretches out a hand. He has at least one gold ring on every hairy finger. “Congratulations. You are a credit to your parents.” He points at my mother and father, like I might not know who they are.
    “Thank you,” I say, and shake his clammy, jeweled hand.
    “How old are you now?” the Pod Minister asks, still squeezing my hand.
    “I’m sixteen, sir,” I say.
    “Sixteen! Ha! Well, you’re a fine specimen. You could be twenty-one. Jude, get this man a drink,” he says, finally letting go of me and gesturing to the whiskey bottle on the sideboard. My father scurries over and pours a little of the amber liquid into a clean tumbler. “Is that it? Ha! Don’t be a miser, Jude,” the Pod Minister says, and laughs through his nose. My father chuckles, too, and fills my glass to the top. My father is usually gruff and stoic, so seeing him grovel for the Pod Minister is always fascinating. In fact, the whole scene is sort of preposterous, but why not take advantage of it? I swipe the whiskey from my father and take a large gulp. That’s when I notice the twins, Lennon and Keane, both ten, sitting on the gray couch holding their own measures of whiskey and giggling. Lennon raises his tumbler and mouths the word Cheers!
    If Bea were here, she’d probably sidle over to the twins and, with a stern look, grab their drinks from them, though she’d definitely take a sip herself. She won’t believe it when I tell her about it later.
    The Pod Minister clears his throat and my father hurries to refill his empty glass.
    “Good man. Ha!” the Pod Minister says. “And your wife? Cynthia, you won’t have a tipple?” I wonder how drunk the Pod Minister must be not to notice that my mother looks like she’s swallowed a balloon.
    “A little one on the way, Cain.” My mother rubs her belly. I have to turn away. I can’t look at her at all now that she’s pregnant. Whenever I do, a picture of my parents comes to mind, and it’s not a picture I like. “Anyway, this is Quinn’s day,” my mother says, coming toward me.
    “I don’t think he knows. Why don’t you tell him, Cain. Go on, do the honors,” my father says, delighted.