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    Because of our ages, we're not allowed to work for any American Intelligence agencies. We got a nurse because it was the least American Intelligence could do after we kicked butt capturing chatter and helped save more people from dying in Trinity Falls. The New York squad had scoured its policy manuals to figure out some way to help the two of us, whom they owed, without creating a paper trail that spoke of "encouraging minors to v-spy on American soil." Their pages on "hired nurses" lacked a demand for reasons on the receipts. It was a glitch in the red tape that worked in our favor, and they went with it, though we would have done better with a secretary.
    Still, we send USIC articles and our versions of alerts all the time, and with such thin covers that only an asshole would not know it was us. We don't get paid. That's the bite-me part.
    Miss Alexa returned and began wiping the bleeding pustule on my face with a hot washcloth. Nurses are very motherly. I kind of like it, since my mother had never been the motherly type. Miss Alexa wiped the back of my neck, clucking about our ages. It was weird, finding out shit that USIC would probably only figure out weeks later if it weren't for us, and having some kindly nurse wiping my face down and telling me to go to bed.
    I didn't question my life. I have to admit, pustules and all, it was better than it had been, back when I was staring at blackboards and having my hundred-and-two-pound body pummeled in gym class.

SIX
CORA HOLMAN
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002
7:30 A.M.
KELLERTON HOUSE
    T HE MORNING SUN poured in through the endlessly tall windows, and I was sucked from bed like a dreamer. I stared out the window facing east. Glimpses of sea blue shone through the pine trees. A barrier island lay on the other side of Great Bay, but I couldn't think of which one, and the mist hid the horizon. The north window revealed more lawn and forest, both very still.
    Before I realized what I was doing, I had scanned the woods, the bramble between trees, looking for the forms or even shadows of strangers. I forced myself to stop the paranoia and to simply bask a moment in the silence, something I hadn't heard in a couple of months. I reached for the sweater I had hung on the bedpost last night.
    Descending the sweeping staircase, I studied the faces in the Civil War portraits. The bearded officers were dressed with lots of officer brocade on their shoulders, and I went through a mental exercise that I find myself doing every time I look at a picture of a man. I imagine the face on a real-live body, and the mouth is uttering, "Cora, I'm your father."
    I'm a slightly diluted image of my mother. I have no idea what my father looks like. As I've gazed at myself lately, I've felt like I'm teetering on a genetic fence. My father's invisible contributions to me could be anything from Swiss to South American.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. Mrs. Starn, head of the historical society, stood beside me. We'd met her last night.
    "You're up early," I said.
    She was already dressed. "At my age, you don't sleep more than five hours on any given night." She had mentioned last night being in her late eighties, and her white bun and frail frame attested to it, though she still had a lot of bounce in her step. She had also mentioned staying here last night, though she didn't live here. She'd said something about furniture men coming early today to bring a new couch for the TV room.
    I followed her through the double doors of the parlor, taking in again the huge fireplace, the massive drapes over tall windows, and the face of a stern woman in the portrait above the couch. She had dark hair like mine and ramrod-straight posture, the kind I'd been accused once in a while of having. I remembered from last night her having the type of gaze that follows you around the room.
    This woman's eyes in the portrait didn't twinkle like the men's had. We watched each other. I had some idea of the