The entire point of a fort is to insulate oneself and one’s friends from members of the opposite gender, which makes things awkward when HR holds their annual antidiscrimination seminar.

“It’s not that we don’t want women in the department!” says Walmsley, his careful stresses muffled by the cushions they brought from home. “But the productivity gains we’ve achieved in here certainly encourage more–”

“Segregation?” snaps DJ.

“No!” says Walmsley. “Merely separation! A separation of equals.”

“Keep ’em talking, Agent W,” mutters Northwood. He’s almost finished scrawling out their attack plan, and Smithfield is due any second with the water balloons.

Cagley has committed so much oneiricide lately that it’s putting her a little behind on homework.

“Cagley?” her mom says nervously when she starts brushing her teeth at 7:00. “Are you really that tired, sweetie?”

“I’m going to read for a while first,” Cagley assures her, then leaps into bed and spends the next ten hours pushing confused people off buildings. They always disappear with a poof and a yelp before they hit the ground. Well, almost always.

“We’re thinking about taking you in for a sleep study,” frowns her dad in the morning.

“Whatever,” says Cagley, thinking, okay, you’re next.

One train leaves Chicago traveling at 45 miles per hour; another leaves New York traveling at 65 miles per hour. Both trains are accelerating at an even rate, though Qing’s 11:45 from Grand Central is newer than Russel’s 12:30. Hers has wifi, but they’re both reading books.

A common misconception about trains is that they all ride the same rails; two trains whose origins match each other’s destinations may, like packets, pick entirely distinct sets of nodes. Russel and Qing have a statistically even chance of passing each other as they kiss the southern edge of Erie.

When will they meet?

Citrane tries not to be out after dark, but things have been hellish at work and the days are getting shorter. She waits at the bus shelter and hopes (not prays) nobody else comes along.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” grins a methhead’s mouth.

“You need to leave,” she whispers.

“Aww, now, I’m just waitin’ for the 17!” he says, injured. “There’s plenty of room for us both under there.”

“My guardians–”

“Ain’t nobody here but you and me,” he says, and then the invisible swords descend.

Citrane closes her eyes against the spatter, and her pulse rushes in her ears like wingbeats.

Rooney has grown old.

In thirty-five years he’s never stopped watching the boy, tracking each development in his curling scrapbook: his rise to frat president, entrepreneur, team owner, mayor. It’s all so horribly effortless. Chicago isn’t just eating from his hand, it’s hooked and strung out, begging for another hit.

Now Rooney watches the weekly parade march through downtown, Bueller cackling as a dozen underlings strain to pull his Ferrari. They say he’s got higher political ambitions, very soon. Governor. Senator. Maybe even–

Rooney was in the army; Rooney keeps his rifle clean. Rooney knows what he’s got to do.