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Century News, Montreal.
    The camera came down from Bruce’s shoulder, which usually signalled relief. This morning Toby felt like he had jumped a fence and landed in a backyard full of angry, and very hungry, boars.
    “Motherfucker,” said Bruce.
    “I really don’t know what to say,” said Candidate Isidore. “It was certainly a unique experience, Mr. Ménard.”
    “Call me Toby, please.”
    “Why in hell would I do that?”
    The handler, who appeared to have drawn a fake mole on her cheek, leaned on a tree and said, as she dialled a number, “I’m sure it’s already on the Web.” She placed the phone to her ear. “Hey. There’s a situation in Montreal. We can own it if we’re quick.”
    Toby thanked Candidate Isidore and apologized, apologized some more, told him about his father and the fire—heroism—and the sleeplessness and the NyQuil and the hypoglycemia. The candidate and his handler made halting eye contact and walked away.
    At the van, Bruce continued to cuss and laugh sarcastically as he loaded up. He climbed into the driver’s seat and sat, quiet and alone, for a full minute before unlocking the passenger door.
    “I regret that, Bruce.”
    “They’re firing people for nothing these days. For pimples.”
    “No one’s going to be fired.”
    “I should have aborted the interview.”
    “Nonsense.”
    “They’ll shoot the messenger. They always shoot the fucking messenger.”
    “I pulled it together at the end.”
    “You like black people?”
    “I’m not feeling well, you see. My father—”
    “Please stop talking.” Bruce’s hands shook as he turned the key. “Please just stop.”
    “Take me to the Montreal General.”
    “I’m taking you back to the station.”
    “You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”
    “Do I want to get in more shit than I’m already in?”
    “Take me to the hospital. Now.”
    “I never liked you.”
    “Now.”
    The waiting room was equipped with a large-screen television tuned to CNN. Canada’s federal election was not the top story, or any story at all. Five patients in monochromatic robes and pyjamas sat in mismatched furniture, watching the progress of a runaway bride who had stolen a white cube van and blown through a border stop into Mexico. American and Mexican officials were struggling to figure out what to do with her, and CNN presenters were struggling to avoid repeating themselves. A helicopter followed her progress into the state of Chihuahua. Toby watched for several minutes, pleasantly hypnotized. A nurse passed, and he inquired about his father.
    He passed through a decontamination corridor, where a sign instructed him to wash his hands and apply antibacterial goo. Inside the warm room, Edward looked up from a gossip magazine whose pages he had been turning with his elbows. There was a clarity in his gaze that Toby associated with hangover mornings. His legs were covered in gauze from his knees down, and the random assortment of wraps on his arms, hands, chest, and head suggested an irresolute Halloween costume. “Karen’s out getting chocolate milk.”
    “And you?”
    “I’m not so much for chocolate milk.”
    “You know what I mean, Dad.”
    Edward turned to a painting of a pond, several ducks. A watery scene for the burned. The room was lightly perfumed. With his gauzy mitt, he pointed to a modest bouquet filled with autumn colours. “From your mom this morning. I woke up and there they were.”
    “Pretty.”
    “Did the cops ask you anything?”
    “I didn’t know what to say. Maybe you could tell me what to tell them.”
    Edward closed his eyes, and they remained closed long enough that Toby thought his father was drifting off. His girlfriend chattered on a shelf above the door. Alicia McIntyre, Century News, Montreal. Edward opened his eyes and gestured upward with his chin, but Toby did not want to turn around and see her. He didn’t want to see his burned father. He wanted to be in his bed, in the darkness, for six to