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second husband was a patent holder, Sven Golbin. They’d divorced amicably. Owen was an art dealer who came from Old World family money. He wanted children. Liv didn’t. (A marriage profiteer should be smart enough to know that this would only divide profits.) He left her for a younger woman.
    Sometimes, though—like tonight—she wondered if she should have had a child, not to appease Owen, but to have someone to impart knowledge to and raise with a philosophy of Liv’s own design. This didn’t strike her as a good reason to have a baby, however.
    That afternoon she clipped certain engagement announcements from the newspaper with nail scissors, and, with duct tape found in a kitchen drawer, she lined them up on the living room wall.
    On her second Scotch and water, she popped an Adderall to balance things out. She found a Sharpie in the drawer of a small built-in and started writing notes under each clipping directly onto the wall. The key for the notes only existed in Liv’s head. It went like this:
    A. Estimated Assets and Income.
    B. Family Money, a ten-point scale.
    C. Apparent Attraction in Type of Woman.
    D. Accessibility Rating.
    E. Desperation Quotient.
    F. Intangibles.
    On her third Scotch, her sister Esme called. Usually she’d let it go to voice mail, but she wanted the company.
    “Have you heard from Mom?” Esme asked.
    “No, why?”
    “They’ve evacuated Ocean City.”
    “She won’t leave.”
    “I know, but I wish she’d tell us she’s not leaving.” Esme gave this little
tsk
noise at the end of her statement, a habit she’d had as a teenager, one that Liv hated.
    “Why should she tell us?” Liv said flatly.
    “So we’d know she’s okay. That’s why.”
    “You know our mother,” Liv said. “She won’t tell you anything that she thinks you already know. She’s not redundant.”
    “Are you calling
me
redundant?”
    “No, but you seek reassurance, and by nature those kinds of people are usually redundant.”
    “Fine,” Esme said, taking the criticism. She’d told herself long ago that she no longer cared what her sisters—especially Liv—thought of her. (Ru was the baby. No one ever really cares much what a baby thinks of you.) “I don’t even know if Jessamine is with her. I just wish she had friends who’d look in on her.”
    “She’s never wanted friends, only followers. And she’s never been successful at getting either.”
    This was true. None of Augusta’s movements had gathered steam. Mothers United for Peace ended in petty squabbles over the logo. Raise Your Voices and The Movement’s Movement were two groups dedicated to empowering people to start movements; both died for lack of momentum. The Self-Actualization Cause, The Individuality Movement, The Deeper Self-Reflection Cause, and The Anti-Shame Movement all failed in less than a year.
    “This is serious,” Esme said. “There’s a reason why the governor has asked people to evacuate!”
    “He’s just covering his ass,” Liv said.
    “Aren’t you watching the news?”
    “No.”
    “Well, DC got hit hard. There’s a full moon. It’s going to hit New Jersey at high tide and New York too. You should be prepared.”
    “New York City is a fortress built of fortresses.” Then Liv thought,
I’m a fortress built of fortresses.
    “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”
    “New Yorkers are immune to natural disasters. We’re too callused from shoving into the subway at rush hour.” It had been many many years since Liv took the subway, but the memories were vivid.
    Esme sighed. “Are you going to ask how I’m doing?”
    “Yes,” Liv said. “How are you doing?”
    “I’m doing very badly.”
    “I’m doing very badly too,” Liv said.
    “You’re so competitive.”
    “Yes,” Liv said. “In fact, I’m more competitive than you are.”
    Esme hung up.
    Evening settled in and things became a blur of rain, wind, lightning, then a buzz from the doorman punctuated the air. Despite the