Dutch was getting worried. Angie was taking a lot longer than he’d expected; he’d already finished his burger and fries and was just nursing the coke, killing time. She just has to pick out some clothes. How hard could it be?

Then he spotted her coming, and noticed that she wasn’t carrying any bags, though she had a coat on over her old top. Her walk wasn’t exactly aimless – she was heading towards the Wendy’s, after all – but compared to what he’d seen of Angie over the last two days, she seemed listless. Out of gas.

He dumped his food wrapper and to go cup in the trash and headed outside. As soon as he got within ten feet he could tell that she’d been crying. “What happened?”

Angie was momentarily puzzled, then realized how she must look after soaking Carol’s nice blouse in tears. “It’s fine. I’ve got lots of stuff; we just need to drive over and load it up.”

“Huh? I thought –”

She cut him off. “She figured it out. All of it. Well . . . I mean, not the body switching stuff, obviously. But everything else. And she spotted the Benz, too, so she told me to just have you pull the car around.”

“Wait.” Dutch shook his head. “She figured what out? That you’re – I mean, that I’m – some kind of a . . . .” He stopped himself, just in time.

Angie’s voice turned cold and precise. “Just how were you planning to finish that sentence?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” His own voice was hot. Angry. “You spent your whole life making sure nobody knew your little secret. And now that it’s my life, my reputation, you’re going around shouting it to the freakin’ world?”

She bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue and forced herself to remember that she still needed Dutch, however hard he made it. She took a steadying breath. “I made a mistake, bringing the shoes and the wig. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, when she saw those – especially when you’d been acting like a bank robber at a traffic stop.”

His hands found his hips. “Oh, this is my fault?”

“You didn’t help,” she snapped, unable to contain herself.

Dutch’s anger boiled over. Before exhaustion and despair had drained her emotions dry, Margaret Mary had been well-acquainted with fear, anger and resentment. But none of that had prepared Dutch for the rage that suddenly consumed him. Rage that seemed too large, too primal, to be shaped into mere words. Almost without volition, he took a step forward, his hands balling into fists.

Angie froze.

Dutch’s earlier bursts of anger had triggered fear responses, but this time was different. Worse. A roaring in her ears drowned out all sound. The only voice she could hear was the one in her head, young and streetwise, screaming at her to run. But it was like she was in a bad dream, unable to move. Unable to cry out. The voice just got louder, more shrill. More urgent.

Dutch watched the blood drain from her face and the light in her eyes go out. The person he’d come to think of as “Angie” faded away, and all he could see was a panicked young girl, too desperate to run, too frightened to speak. It hit him like the hammer of a drop-forge. I did that to her, he thought. Just by getting mad and clenching my fists, I did that.

I’ve become my father.

His rage evaporated and he deflated like a balloon, his arms falling to his sides. “Fuck, Angie,” he croaked.

She didn’t move or make a noise. All she could do was stare at him, with eyes that were always too large. Too wounded.

“Angie?”

Nothing.

He stepped forward.

She flinched.

Cautiously, he raised both hands, palms outward. “Angie . . . I’m sorry, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some hint of recognition, of intelligence, flickered in her wide eyes, then vanished. A tremor ran through her body, but stopped, unresolved.

Her brain was simply not processing properly. She didn’t see Dutch, or anyone in particular. He was just a man. Maybe The Man. Large, unpredictable, dangerous. Someone to avoid or, if that wasn’t possible, to placate. Divert. Mollify.

He was saying something. She couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded anxious . . . wanted something. What was it? Then he was beside her. His hand was there, between her shoulder blades. Subtle pressure. He wanted her to move, to go somewhere.

She couldn’t run; her legs were jelly. So she nodded, compliant, trying hard to look small. Inoffensive. As he began to guide her forward, she bent her head and kept her eyes down, making sure she didn’t do anything he might regard as a challenge. Through lowered eyelashes, she saw an expensive looking car ahead and bitter memories supplied an answer. Ah. Of course. Should be safe if I play it right. Might even get a few bucks.

After a moment’s fuzzy thought, she swayed inside his guiding arm and wrapped an arm around his waist. See . . . You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.

When they reached the car, Angie moved forward and opened the door to the back seat. She sat sideways with her knees together, about to swivel her legs inside, when she happened to look up and catch his face.

He looked . . . Shocked? Stricken? Something’s not right! Her first instinct was renewed panic, and she shrank back in the seat. But he wasn’t raising his hand or threatening her. He seemed to be saying something, over and over. What was it? She tried to make sense of it, through the brain fog and all the memories and terrors.

A name. He was saying a name. Repeating it.

Angie.

She drew a breath, ragged and rasping. Angie? Another. A third. My name is . . . ?

Dutch, meanwhile, was moments away from breaking down completely. Angie was acting like some kind of zombie, and all he could think to do was to get her home. He was relieved, at first, when she didn’t fight him, but he’d been confused when she put her arm around him. Only when she went to get in the back seat of the car did he realize what was going on.

He broke down, pleading. “Fuck, Angie! Come on! Come back, would you!”

Her eyes focused slowly, then fixed on his, intense. “Say my name again.”

“Angie?

Her heart was still racing, but she could feel the panic starting to recede. Her own memories – Len’s memories – were coming back to the fore, but she could tell that the balance had shifted, in those moments. The girl who had been Margart Mary Aquino was more real to her now, more present. Vivid. That was more than a little frightening.

As much to herself as to the now-male person looming over her, she husked, “That’s right. My name is Angie.”

“You scared the shit out of me!”

“That’s two of us,” she muttered. “Give me a minute, will you?”

She closed her eyes and fought for control. Of her heartrate, her breathing. Her thoughts. The panic that had seized her, seemingly out of nowhere.

Dutch could only watch, helpless, as the battle played out across her features. He wanted to help, to undo whatever it was that he’d done. But he had no idea how.

Angie finally felt stable enough to reopen her eyes. The car door was still open, and Dutch was still right by the door, looking distressed . . . and useless. Pulling herself back to her feet took more strength than she expected, but she did not want to ask for help. Then she turned and shut the door to the back seat firmly.

“C’mon,” he said awkwardly. “Let me get you home.”

“No.” She was clinging to memories like they might desert her again, and the most recent memory was sharp. “I came here to get clothes that don’t look like I’ve been sleeping in them for months. I need them.”

“Just get in the car,” he urged, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ll get them for you.”

“Thank you.” Her words were careful, like she didn’t trust them. Should she be thanking him? Wasn’t it the least he could do? Her mind still felt fuzzy, diffuse. With considerable effort, she focused on that question. Dutch had lost his temper. Was that his fault?

She thought about what had caused their almost disastrous argument, and his fear about what the woman in the shop would think of him. It would be easy to dismiss the feeling, but two days earlier, that fear had been her own. She would have been angry, too – even if she would have handled it better.

With a start, she realized that she’d been standing still, staring at nothing. She refocused on Dutch and said, “She’s a good person, and she wouldn’t judge you. But you don’t need to deal with her. Just pull the car up, pop the trunk, and I’ll load it up.”

Dutch swallowed. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He drove her back to the store, pulled forward, and used the internal lever to open the trunk.

Angie went inside, gave Carol a wave, then bent to get two of the bags. She’d been weak before, but the emotional toll of the last half hour had drained whatever reserves she’d been tapping. A single bag was almost too much; two were beyond her. Fortunately, she’d kept her back to Carol, so she wasn’t embarrassed further.

Dutch couldn’t help but notice the exhaustion on Angie’s face when she came out of the store, a single bag held close to her chest like she might drop it at any second. Her eyes looked bruised and her lips were pinched in concentration, visible evidence of the effort it was taking for her to put one foot in front of the other.

He shook his head in disgust. “Fuck it.” He got out, came around to the back and took the bag from her. “Angie. I’ll get the rest.”

She wanted to protest, but she didn’t have it in her. Sagging against the car, she nodded. “Okay.”

Carol was back behind the counter. When Dutch entered instead of Angie, she smiled in a way that wasn’t at all forced. “Thank you again for the donation, and feel free to come back any time. Angie says you’re good people.”

He bobbed his head in embarrassed acknowledgment, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He bent down and grabbed two bags in each arm, holding them all together, then returned to the car.

The ride back was quiet, with driver and passenger both lost in their own thoughts. Tree-lined streets and row houses in medium-brown brick. A few kids on bicycles, carefree and careless around cars. A woman walking a dog that was far too large for her to handle, straining at the leash. Just a typical Sunday morning, devoid, to all appearances, of any drama or mystery.

Dutch turned on his street, and when he came to the house where the shades were drawn, he reached up to push the button that opened the garage door. He pulled in slowly, less certain of where to stop, then set the parking brake and shut off the engine.

Angie put a hand on his arm just as he was about to get out. “When I lost it back there . . . you could have left me.”

He looked at her, baffled. “Huh?”

“I’m serious. You could have left me there at the strip mall. Why didn’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You would have, yesterday.”

He wanted to deny it, but she of all people would know better. “I guess it just didn’t occur to me.”

“Well . . . thanks. I’d like to think I’d have managed to snap out of it on my own, but I don’t actually know that.”

He looked down and bit his lower lip. “You were, like, stuck in my memories, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Yeah, I was. And I’m still pretty freaked by it.”

He was pretty freaked out about it, too, but decided it wasn’t a good time to say so. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you. I don’t know what came over me – I was so mad!”

Angie’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “I was never a particularly high-T guy, but my body’s got a crap load more testosterone than you’ve ever had to handle.”

That hadn’t occurred to him, either. “My body did that?”

“It kind of amps up feelings like that, yeah.”

“Fuck!” He thought about it for a moment. “But . . . you weren’t like that!”

“Go back further. Think about when I was a teenager, or in my twenties.” She shrugged. “When you’re new to it, that shit can really mess you up.”

The idea that some random chemical in his bloodstream might cause him to lose control and start acting like his alcoholic father did nothing to reduce his panic. “Is there, like, something I can take for it?”

“You get used to it. And, you’ll find it’s got some benefits, too – Like those muscles you were so proud of, this morning.”

He snorted, unconvinced. “Yeah, I guess.”

She decided the conversation had been heavy enough. “Maybe you can use them to help me unload the trunk?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Where do you want them?”

Since she didn’t want to take up space in the living area, Angie suggested that the bags just stay in the garage. When they had that sorted, though, she pulled out some things to change into and put them in a neat pile. “Dutch . . . we need to get you ready for tomorrow. But I need an hour, okay?”

“Take it. Take two.”

She shook her head, trying to project firmness, though her evident exhaustion spoiled the effect. “No. Tomorrow’s important – as much for me as it is for you. More, probably. But I need to just soak in a tub for a bit. I’m . . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Again, Dutch felt a stab of fear. But all he said was, “Go. We have plenty of time.”

She nodded absently, took her neat bundle, and went upstairs.

The bathroom between the two repurposed bedrooms was the only one in the house with a tub. Len had occasionally pampered himself by soaking with fragrant bath salts or even bubbly bath oils, though the tub wasn’t really large enough for his frame. Angie’s new body, on the other hand, would fit just fine.

The diffuse light that made it through the frosted window was more than enough to suit her mood. She took a minute to get the water temperature right, then sank the stopper down and stepped away to strip out of the clothes Margaret Mary had been wearing for far too long. Although she’d managed to get them mostly clean – except for the oil stain on the left side of the jeans – they were beyond threadbare.

She fished out the bath salts from the vanity drawer and sprinkled some into the rising water before stepping in and sitting down. Slowly and thoroughly, she once again began to soap up every inch of herself that she could reach. Am I desperate to get clean, she wondered, or desperate to scrub Margaret Mary away?

She remembered Dutch’s words, after the successful driving lesson. Will I still be me, when I take all your memories? She had sympathized with his fears, but hadn’t truly shared them. Now, though, the prospect of losing her identity permanently, of being subsumed by the memories and instincts of the body she inhabited, caused her to tremble, despite the warmth of the water rising around her.

She sank down further into the tub and breathed deeply. The swirling steam carried the scent of almond and vanilla. A hint of lavender. Once, they had been a way for Len to acknowledge and indulge his feminine side. The memories were tinged with the wistfulness that colored almost every aspect of Len’s life, but they were good memories nonetheless. Even now, the soothing aromatics carried a message of peace. Of the easing of fears.

I can do this, she told herself. If anyone can do this, I can. I’ve lived my whole life with a girl inside.

But Len had effectively locked up his “girl inside.” In the world beyond the drawn shades of his house, Len had guarded his thoughts and emotions as carefully as he’d guarded his appearance, to make sure that no sign of Angie was visible to anyone else. Could she do the same, with the ghost of Margaret Mary? Should she?

“I will if I have to,” she muttered. But somehow that didn’t seem like a smart idea. Margaret Mary had lived her whole life as a female – and a small, vulnerable one at that. She had knowledge that Angie would need in the days and weeks ahead, until her own experience and instincts caught up with her new circumstances.

More than that, at a deeper level, the idea of somehow locking up the young girl’s memories – the nascent consciousness that seemed to be present within her – just felt wrong. She couldn’t say why. But the feeling was a strong one – almost as if Margaret Mary were sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at her with accusing eyes.

She leaned forward to shut off the tap before sinking back into the soothing warmth of the bath. “I’ll just have to find a better answer,” she said, staring up at the beads of water forming on the matte white ceiling overhead. “One that works for both of us.”

She soaked for a good ten minutes, feeling her muscles relax. Even the incessant itch from bug bites receded.

The walls outside the tub enclosure were a pale yellow that was just this side of delicate – something Len had regarded as a daring choice when he’d painted it. He’d also selected cream-colored floor tiles with a swirling pattern in a robin’s egg blue. Even the towels were large, lush, and fluffy. In the event that anyone had ever seen it, he’d had his excuses prepared in advance. It’s the guest bath, he would have said, dismissively. I didn’t decorate it this way for me.

Reflecting back on her carefully constructed excuses, she could only shake her head. Since she’d never invited anyone to visit her at home and had always taken care of her own cooking, cleaning, and general home maintenance, no one else had ever seen the bathroom. The bathroom she’d regarded, in the privacy of her own thoughts, as pretty.

Let it go, she thought. You can like pretty things now. You can BE pretty, without anyone thinking you’re a freak. Stop worrying about it. It was hard to say whether the thought was her own, or Margaret Mary’s. But she knew the advice was right, regardless. And whatever the future would bring, she decided, she would face it looking like a grown woman rather than a ragamuffin.

Angie had never shaved her legs, always afraid that somehow she might have been discovered. With no small amount of trepidation, she intentionally tapped Margaret Mary’s memories again, still feeling them almost shockingly close to the surface. I can’t do this without you. The thought was equal parts confession and apology.

This time, at least, accessing the memories didn’t trigger an existential crisis.

She rested her left foot against the top of the tub, lathered the leg, and ran a fresh razor across skin that was already smoother than any Angie had known since puberty. Her motions were slow and fluid, and she avoided the bites. With even greater care, she shaved her underarms.

That done, she washed her hair twice, then applied conditioner, and leaned back, closing her eyes. It was time to be up and doing, but she needed to get her head in the game, and years of discipline gave her the tools. Setting aside her fears and worries, she consciously focused on practical considerations, making a mental list of the things that she needed to get done so that she could successfully start this new life she had been given.

Get Dutch prepped, and hope he succeeds. If he does, I’ll have some money and I’ll need a place to put it. Any bank will need to see an ID. So . . . Birth certificate first, then ID card? Can I get a drivers’ licence, or will I have to settle for a plain ID? Anyhow: after that, I’ll need a place to stay, and I’ll need to get a job. That will be low skill/no skill until I can get some credentials. Will I need classes for a GED, or can I test out?

As she had hoped it would, applying the logical, methodical practices she had honed as an engineer served to finish what the bath and the routines began. Angie was calm and focused by the time she rinsed away the conditioner and got out of the tub. She wrapped up her hair, patted herself dry, and took five minutes to neatly trim both finger- and toe- nails. They weren’t pretty, but at least they were no longer split, cracked, and filthy.

Her arms were far more flexible than Len’s had been; she could easily reach behind her back to manage the pair of hooks and eyes on the simple flesh-toned bra Carol had helped pick out. She adjusted the straps slightly. The soft material cupping her small breasts gave her a warm feeling of comfort – even protection – while subtly adding volume. The new cotton panties fit perfectly as well, moulding to her body in a way that boxers never could have matched.

The second-hand jeans were snug without being too tight, and the hoody was soft and comfortable. She adjusted the zipper to create a defined V-neck, then paused to examine herself in the mirror. The face and body were Margaret Mary’s, but somehow she could see herself as well. It was in her eyes, her expression. How she held herself, and the clothing she had chosen.

I can do this, she promised herself again. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she amended her resolve, ever so slightly.

WE can do this.

~o~O~o~

When he heard Angie coming down the stairs, Dutch stopped pacing and looked anxiously toward the doorway into the main room. But as soon as he saw her face, he found himself relaxing. Angie was definitely back, and that reassured him on too many levels to count.

She met his eyes and gave him a lopsided smile. “It’s okay. I’m not broken.”

“You look . . . .” He stopped, unable to find the words. Her hair was still damp, falling straight and dark, she looked clean and neat, and her unremarkable clothes fit well and didn’t have any holes or stains. On top of all that, her eyes were clear and calm and her gaze was steady.

She raised a delicate eyebrow, declining to fill the silence.

“Normal,” he said, adding it all up. “You look normal. If I saw you walking down the street, I wouldn’t think twice.”

“There’s a compliment a girl can get worked up about,” she said wryly.

He shook his head. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”

She understood exactly what he was saying. “You mean Officer Kincaid wouldn’t feel like he needed to run me out of town.”

“Kincaid wouldn’t even recognize you. And the guy at McDonalds would just take your order, like you were a normal person.”

She couldn’t read his expression, but her “girl inside” was so very close to the surface. She knew that Dutch’s emotions would have to be mixed. “It’s how they should have treated you all along. Like a person. Not some kind of threat.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, then shook his head. “Well, it’s like you said. I need to let all that go, and, well . . . I’m ready.”

She cocked her head, a silent question.

“I was thinking about it, while you were upstairs. This thing tomorrow. I want to do it right. This is my life now, and I don’t want to start it by pissing all over everyone you know or being some kind of a dick. All those people we talked about this morning – Trevor and Valerie, Joyce, Tori, Isaiah, Achilles, Abby – I don’t want them thinking I’m an asshole, even though I might not see any of them again. It’s just . . . .” His arms waved, indicating difficulty finding the right works. “Lennart Vansittart means something to them. I don’t want that to change. Does that make any sense?”

Angie felt a lump in her throat. But she kept her voice steady. “Of course.”

“So, what do I need to do?”

Angie didn’t think they’d need the computer for what she wanted to cover next. Dutch grabbed a Diet Coke and Angie brought a water and her left-over half sandwich from Subway into the living room, setting both on the coffee table in front of the two-person couch.

Dutch took the leather recliner, surprised at how comfortable it was. “You almost never sit in this.”

Angie shrugged. “It looked right for the room.”

“Everything’s so neat . . . no clutter. My father’s place was never like this.” He popped the top on his drink and took a sip. “We fought about it all the time.”

In Margaret Mary’s memories, Angie saw a doublewide trailer with faded tan vinyl siding, set on a cinderblock foundation. The inside was cluttered with tools that would have gone in a garage, if they’d had one, and mail that hadn’t been thrown out. Clothes that hadn’t been put away. She heard the father’s voice, slurred with drink. Angry. What have you been doing all day? Why isn’t this done?

“I’ve always hated clutter,” Angie offered.

“So did Father.” Dutch shrugged. “Just not enough to do anything about it. Near as I could tell, I was only good for cleaning up his shit.”

Angie thought about that, tapping other memories. “It wasn’t all bad,” she said carefully. “Especially when you were younger.”

Dutch frowned. “Maybe. Anyways . . . let’s talk about the meeting. Ramsey.”

“Right.” Angie was more than willing to change the subject. “So. Ramsey can’t just get rid of you, right? Tell me why.”

Dutch thought a minute. “Because . . . uhh. Right. Because you negotiated contract protection eight years ago when you took over as the senior engineer.”

“Yup. So he can’t fire me until I’m sixty-five, and he wants the slot now. Why?”

Without losing a beat, Dutch said, “Because Achilles wants to move up, and he’s going to leave if he can’t.”

Angie nodded. “And he’s good, and the company can’t afford to lose him.”

“He’s kind of prickly,” Dutch said, thinking about the younger engineer. “Not a people person. The rest of the team likes you way better.”

“I know. But he’s the best engineer we have. Better than me.”

“So . . . you kind of agree with Ramsey, right?” Dutch frowned, trying to make sense of his ‘Len’ memories.

“I can see both sides of it.” Angie took a bite of her sandwich and chewed it carefully while she considered how to respond. “It’ll be a big disruption, and the team won’t like it. Achilles will have to grow into the job, but . . . he’s more than earned his shot. And if we lose him now, we’re not going to find someone nearly as good.”

Dutch understood what Angie was saying, and it dovetailed with Len’s memories. Still, though, from his own perspective her thinking was hard to follow. “Why do you care whether the company does well after you leave?”

Angie cocked her head, considering his question. “Pride, I guess. Some of it, anyway. I joined the company when I finally got my shit together, and I helped build it. We did good work, over the years. I guess it kind of gave my life some meaning. Some purpose.”

Dutch chewed that over, but again couldn’t really track it. “My only purpose, these last few years, was just staying alive.”

Angie was hit, again, with the memory of dark water swirling over massive boulders, far below. “That wasn’t enough, though, was it?” she asked softly.

“No.”

The silence between them stretched long enough to be awkward, as they both relived what Margaret Mary had intended to be her last moments. Then Dutch cleared his throat and said, “If pride’s only some of it, what’s the rest?”

“It’s the people. My team.”

“Just before we got switched, you were thinking that everyone would forget you within a couple weeks.”

“That’s just the way it goes.” She shrugged. “Think about when Andy Jarvis retired. Fifteen years as chief engineer, and the place revolved around him. We weren’t even sure the company would survive when he left. But two weeks later, we’d all moved on.”

Dutch looked skeptical. “Then why do you care about your people, if they’re just going to forget you anyway?”

Angie wanted to say it was pride, once again. She hadn’t just had a voice in most of them getting hired, she’d brought them along, showed them the ropes, and taught them how to work together as a cohesive group. Two days ago, she would have said so without any qualm. But as she sat there, looking at her life partly from the outside, she realized that she’d just been hiding from the deeper truth.

“They’re the closest thing to friends I’ve ever had.” It came out soft. Surprised. “I probably wouldn’t have seen them again once I retired – and now, I definitely won’t. But I care about what happens to them. It matters to me.”

Dutch looked at her thoughtfully, seeing the pensive lines that aged her young face. Delving a little deeper into Len’s memories, he said, “They could have been real friends, if you’d let them.”

Angie grew very still. “Maybe.”

Her face was closed, now – a mask that Dutch was beginning to recognize, as much from his new experience as from Len’s old memories. “Angie?”

“Hmmm?”

“It was the dysphoria thing, wasn’t it? That kept you all closed off from people?”

“Maybe,” she repeated. Then she raised both hands, suggesting surrender. “Probably.”

“But it’s gone now, right? You’re, like . . . you know. The right gender and all.”

That drew a smile. “Yes.”

“So, maybe now, you can have friends?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she said honestly. “There’s been kind of a lot going on.”

“I guess so,” he agreed. “But maybe? I mean, you and me both, we haven’t had friends. Maybe now, we can.”

“Let’s hope so.” She put her hand on the conversational steering oar and gave it a big shove. “Anyhow – getting back to business. Ramsey can’t fire you, but he wants you to retire early. What’s his play?”

Dutch frowned, surprised to find Angie so closed off on the question of friendship. But she was right that he needed to get prepared, so he didn’t fight her change of subject. “I . . . hmmm. I feel like I should know this, but I don’t.”

“Let’s work from some things you do know,” Angie prompted, sounding more like herself. “What’s a carrot that won’t cost Ramsey anything from his own budget?”

This time Dutch was able to come up with an answer. “His budget’s only for current operations. Salary and bonuses. Retirement comes out of the benefits budget, which is Katrina Bliss’s department. The 401(k)’s all done by an across the board formula, so Ramsey can’t do anything with that. But he could give you extra points on your pension, right?”

Angie smiled. “Exactly. That comes out of Katrina’s hide, so Ramsey won’t care about it.”

“Why do I feel like that would be a bad deal?” Dutch’s face twisted in concentration.

“Because it would be. Now tell me why,” Angie coaxed.

“Let me think . . . . You’ve already got all the years you need for full vesting, so he can only offer credit towards your age.”

“Right,” she said neutrally. “Which would allow me to start taking unreduced monthly payments now, even though I’m 18 months from turning sixty five.”

The lightbulb went off. “But you don’t want to start taking payments right now anyway. The vested amount only gets adjusted for inflation until you get your first pension check.”

“After which, it’s fixed forever. No COLA’s, period. And inflation is having a moment.”

“So the ‘benefit’ he’ll want to offer isn’t one I want to take.” Then Dutch frowned and closed his eyes. “Salary. Pension. 401 frickin’ (k). Shit. Listen to me!”

“Scary, isn’t it?” Angie asked quietly.

“Yeah. It’s like, I’m here, talking to you, and then suddenly I’m someone else. Spouting off shit I shouldn’t know anything about. It’s freaky.”

He was touching the root of her own fears, and she had no great comfort to offer.

Before she could come up with something to say, he opened his eyes and smiled crookedly. “I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Somehow. So, I’ve got Ramsey’s play. What’s my response?”

This time, Angie grinned. “Cash.”

– To be continued.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.