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puzzle app, I gave serious thought to faking a heart attack.
    “Yeah.” He smiled and circled the relevant paragraph. “It does. And—what were we talking about?”
    “We were saying Jess is due at the end of the month.”
    “No, no,” the lady herself said. “First day of spring. Or something.”
    “No, that doesn’t sound right.”
    “Of course it doesn’t,” Sinclair said, filching a piece of toast from Jessica’s plate and sneaking it to Fur and Burr. “Autumn.”
    “Or a New Year’s baby.” I drained the remnants of my smoothie. “It’s . . . you know. Whenever.”
    “But it’s sure nice of you to take an interest, Dr. Taylor,” Not-Nick piped up. He’d slipped his toast to Jessica’s plate, probably saving Sinclair’s life in the process. “We registered at Cracker Barrel if you want to know what to get for the baby.”
    I gasped at his Freudian slip. “
Crate
and Barrel,” I corrected. “Cracker Barrel’s the restaurant.” Did Crate and Barrel even have baby stuff? I thought it was all yuppie furniture and kitchen accessories. Translation: I’d never set foot in the place and never would. Shit, maybe she really did register at the restaurant.
    We were gathered in the mansion’s kitchen, our unofficial conference room. Come to think of it, maybe it was official. We sure had enough meetings there. Mom had brought BabyJon over as she’d threatened, and I’d told the others she wanted to come by and say hello and catch up on all our doings. (“Marc’s a zombie but Ancient Me won’t ever be back, Jessica’s still pregnant, and No-Longer-Nick still doesn’t hate me. We don’t have a cat but Sinclair has two dumb dogs, and the Antichrist hasn’t been around much. We’re out of milk.”)
    My mom, embracer of all things bizarre (especially since her only child walked out of an embalming room after dying the first time), was so kind to Marc I almost couldn’t watch. He’d been hanging back a bit, knowing he was different, knowing my mom knew he was different, but not knowing how my mom would react to the changes. I could have told him, but why spoil the surprise? Her reaction was the same as it was to my return from the grave: thank God, thank God, thank God.
    “Now we won’t worry about you so much,” she told him, holding both of his hands in hers like he was a child instead of a grown man who towered over her. “Now you can take care of yourself and Betsy even better than before.”
    “I didn’t do such a good job with either,” he said with a rueful grin, but his face was lit with relief to be so easily accepted, and he paid close attention to everything my mom said. When she excused herself to use the bathroom, he started to follow her before he caught himself. I failed to hold back my snicker.
    He tried to wither me with a faux glare, but even actual glares don’t always work. Then he dropped the act and leaned down to whisper (which was dumb, since almost everyone in the house had superhearing), “She didn’t even mind that I feel different! Like this.” He held out his hands, cool and pale. “And . . .” He gestured to his long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. He couldn’t bear to wear scrubs anymore.
    I grabbed his with my own clammy paws. “So you’re permanently chilly now, and you dress better. Welcome to our horrible, horrible club. Four words, Marc, four words that will change your unlife: knee-high fuzzy socks. And also those little hand-warmer dealies the deer hunters use, the ones you keep in your pockets.”
    He nodded and actually wrote it down; he kept a cell phone on him nearly always and a small notebook and pen in one of his back pockets. One of the many ways he kept himself engaged.
    “Write down ‘the fuzzier the better—my manliness is not as important as being warm so bring on the pink.’ And then write down ‘nothing I buy is too good for Betsy.’”
    He snorted but didn’t look up from his scribbling. “I’m sticking with ‘little