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awful day when the children were . . .
    No, don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t think about that.
    â€œDo they like deep-fried Twinkies?” Cindy-Lou is asking. “Best deep-fried Twinkies in the world are right here.”
    â€œThey’ve never had them, but I’m sure they’d love them.”
    To think she was feeling guilty, just minutes ago, about the frozen chicken nuggets and the little bowls of Goldfish crackers she’d given the kids to eat as they watched television because they were all too hungry to go without a snack before dinner, which won’t be ready for . . .
    She checks the directions on the box and sets the stove timer for twenty-seven minutes.
    That means the kids will be fed by six, bathed by seven, and trying to keep their eyes open long enough to spend five minutes with Mack when he gets home after eight.
    Then she and Mack will eat—sushi delivery, she decides—and tell each other how exhausting the day was before Allison heads up to bed, leaving Mack to deal with the work-related e-mails and the spreadsheets he inevitably has to have finished by morning.
    She won’t hear him when he slips into bed beside her, and most of the time, he won’t hear her when she slips out of it a few hours later, summoned by J.J. the human rooster.
    The insomnia that’s plagued Mack all his life still strikes now and then, but some recently prescribed medication has been helping. It’s not as effective as the Dormipram he was taking last fall, but thankfully he isn’t experiencing the frightening side effects he’d suffered with that medication.
    Maybe he’ll sleep better when they get to Nebraska. All that fresh air, early-to-bed, early-to-rise . . .
    â€œI can’t wait to tell Brett you’re really coming,” Cindy-Lou tells her. “It’s going to be great for the two of you to see each other after all these years.”
    I hope so , Allison thinks. I really do.
    G lancing around to make sure no one is in the vicinity, Carrie picks her way through the overgrown yard to the back door that leads to a small storage room just off the Big Iguana’s kitchen. It’s ajar, as always.
    She swiftly reaches inside and sets the box on the scarred plywood floor there, against the wall alongside a couple of spare propane tanks used to power the deep fryer.
    Even if someone happens to spot the carton, it won’t draw suspicion. It’s identical to stacks of others in the storage room, stamped with the name of a liquor distributor; the kind of box that is delivered nearly every day.
    Only this one isn’t filled with bottles of rum.
    Satisfied, Carrie crosses the yard again. The humid air is hot and terribly still; a thunderstorm is brewing. The sky, barely visible beyond a canopy of tangled vines and fronds, still retains a high patch of blue, assuring her that by the time the bad weather hits, she’ll be settled in the air-conditioned comfort of a cabin at sea. That will be . . . bliss .
    Her scalp is already beginning to sweat beneath the long, dark wig, also left over from her old life. She’s accumulated quite a few wigs; all of them now abandoned, along with her tropical wardrobe, in dresser drawers in the apartment upstairs. Having gone gray fairly young, she started dying her hair a dirty blond shade a few years ago. She did it less out of vanity than practicality: she got better tips as a blonde, most of it in American dollars. More cash to stockpile, waiting for the day she would make her escape . . .
    Waiting for today.
    But I have to stay calm. Take it step by step . . .
    She’s wearing Molly’s orange floral print sundress now—not Carrie’s style, by any means, but all that matters is that it will get her onto the Carousel. Between the wig, the sundress, the bag, the heels, and Molly’s glasses perched on her nose, she’s willing