Page 133 of One Adult, Please

"He hasn't developed stealth capabilities. He's a zombie who wandered into a closet."

"Gregory doesn't do closets, Joel. Gregory has a destiny and that destiny is ruining my moments."

"Noted," I say. "Gregory remains at large. I'll add it to the incident log."

"We need a Gregory annex to the crayon plan. With diagrams. And glitter. Glitter makes threats official."

"Grace," Beck says. "The flag."

"Right," she says. "The flag. The moon. We landed." She raises the flag. "On behalf of the group heart situation and its affiliates, subsidiaries, and Kevin, I claim this plaza and this park and these walls and these sadly unavailable churros."

She crouches to plant the flag between two stones in the empty fountain basin. When she straightens, her heel slips off the outer edge of the rim. Her weight shifts toward the plaza. The physics are immediate. She goes down. Knees first, then palms, the flag flying out of her hand, her body hitting the concrete of Solar Plaza with the sound that falling makes when falling isn't funny.

I freeze three steps away.

She's on hands and knees, shaking. This is the first time Grace has fallen and not gotten up.

The not-getting-up is the bravest thing I've ever seen.

I kneel beside Grace and my hand goes to her back, between her shoulder blades.

Beck drops on her other side. Grant drops in front of her, checks her wrists and knees without making her move, then settles cross-legged on the concrete. The new folks hover at a respectful distance, sensing this is sacred ground.

"You don't have to get up," I tell her. "You can stay down."

Grace's shaking slows. "The ground is being dramatic today."

"You don't have to get up," I say. "You don't have to get up, Grace."

Her wet eyes find mine. "Really?"

"Really. The ground has people on it now."

She sits back. From hands and knees to sitting.

Beck shifts closer. Grant's hand finds hers.

Grace breathes. Her ragged breathing evening, finding a rhythm. "I've been getting up my whole life," she says. Her breathing catches on something. "Nobody ever said I could stay down," she whispers. "Nobody ever said the ground was okay."

My throat does something that isn't on any maintenance checklist. I would rewire the entire park for her. I would replace every bolt. But the hardest part is staying on the concrete while she trusts me enough not to get up.

"There are people on the ground, Grace," I say. "There have been people on the ground since the fish tube."

"The fish tube," she says. "The fish tube is where you stared at the fish glass for three hours and I thought you were watching fish and you were watching me."

"I was assessing the structural integrity of the viewing glass."

"You were watching me, Joel."

"I was doing both. Both require monitoring."

"You just compared me to a fish window."

"I compared you to a critical transparency in a load-bearing wall. That's not an insult. That's the most important component in the system."

She leans into me. Tips sideways. Her head against my shoulder. Beck leans in from the other side. Grant is in front of her, cross-legged, still holding her hand.

The three-dollar WonderSphere flag is on the ground where it fell. The pennant is fluttering in a slight breeze. The cartoon sphere mascot giving a thumbs up from the concrete, which is the moon, which is the plaza, which is the place where Grace landed.