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Oliver regards me impassively. “I’m not sleeping with her, if that’s what you mean? She is like a mother to me. Otherwise, perhaps it’s similar. I wish I could bring you home to Madeline. She would like that very much. We were talking of first kisses a little while ago; when you kissed me, that first time, I was so ecstatic that I time traveled home almost immediately afterward, and Madeline heard me return. I must have looked quite besotted, because she asked me if I was ill.”

We both chuckle. “Poor Oliver,” I say.

“Oh, that was a fine day. She was so happy for me.”

“I should fall in love with her.”

“What would become of me, then?” he says, plaintively.

“There’s always Zach,” I reply.

“You frighten me sometimes, Alba DeTamble.” He says it mockingly, but his expression is serious. We are staring into each other’s eyes. “I dare you,” Oliver says. I lean forward and I kiss him, quickly, haphazardly. He stubs out his cigarette and says, “I double dare you,” and this time I kiss him properly, and mean it. I knew I would, sooner or later.

Random Acts of Randomness

Monday, September 1, 2036 (Zach is 35, Oliver is 31)

Oliver: I haven’t been avoiding Zach, but I haven’t been seeking him out, either. For me, the shooting at the Haymarket memorial was just a few months ago, and I don’t know how to talk with him about it. I am having a hard time functioning; I wake up panicking, I’m drinking more than I should. I can’t rid myself of the idea that I ought to have been able to save both Zach and Gomez, even though Alba told me exactly how the shooting would unfold, told me what to say, what to do, what to expect: I moved through it as an unhappy actor, with my dialogue and actions laid out for me like immutable laws of nature. I have never felt less free in any time—it was as though I was making preexisting music. It was horrible.

Now I’m walking down Lincoln Avenue with my empty shopping bags, headed for Trader Joe’s, when I hear someone call out “Oliver!” from across the street. Zach cuts through the barely moving traffic and rushes over to me as though he’s afraid I won’t wait. He looks thinner than before, and unwell, as though he’s been having trouble sleeping, too. “Oliver. Hey. Um—how are you?” He seems pleased to see me but apprehensive, and I feel the same.

“Zach, hello. I’m okay. Mostly. You?”

“Still reeling. We all are. I’m meeting a friend for a beer, but I’m early. Do you want to hang out for a while?”

“Sure.” There’s a bar on the corner, and we are led to an outdoor table under the shade of a huge oak tree. It’s crowded because today is a scorching, sunny Labor Day. Everyone is wearing the bare minimum of clothing, all the white people are painfully pink, everyone is drinking beer. I wonder if they have Pimm’s? It’s one of those English things I’ve heard of but never tasted. This bar is pretending to be a pub, so I ask. They do have it, but I am embarrassed when the waiter brings a large glass full of brownish liquid packed with fruit and cucumber slices. Then I taste it and I don’t care if it looks like fruit salad—it’s delicious. I wish I could take it home with me for Madeline. She mentioned once that it was her favorite when she was young.

Zach is drinking hefeweizen. He smiles at my choice. “Is that good?”

“It actually is,” I reply. “Would you care for a strawberry?”

“Thanks, yes.” We sit in companionable silence, eating fruit and drinking our beverages. Then Zach sighs and says, “This is awkward, I’m sorry. You saved my life the last time I saw you, and I never got to thank you. I didn’t even find out what happened to you—were you all right? I looked for you afterward, but you weren’t there.”

“Oh, not at all, it was nothing.” I stare at the table, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m glad to have helped, but your friend, the alderman—I’m sorry he died.”

“Thank you. Me, too. I mean, I miss him. I guess you never know how much you care about someone until they’re gone. Everything reminds me of Gomez. I’ve been having dreams about him.”

“Dreams?” I drag my eyes back to his face.

Now Zach is the one looking away. “He won’t talk to me. He turns his back.”

“I’ve had those dreams, but not about Gomez,” I tell him. In my dreams it is my parents who reproach me, who I failed to save. “There was nothing you could have done for him.”

“I’m confused about how you happened to be there at all?” he says. “I didn’t think politics was your thing?”

“You invited me; or maybe you just mentioned that your boss was giving a speech? I was downtown, and I saw something on the news about the speech, so I thought I would show up. But then, there was the drone . . .”

“It seemed too providential to be random,” Zach says, “you suddenly being there. I’m sure I would be dead if you hadn’t grabbed me.”

“Do you believe in divine providence? I am superstitious but not religious,” I reply. Alba teases me sometimes for being so irrational. I truly can’t help it.

Zach shakes his head, no. “I can’t believe in anything that would decide to save me and let Gomez die. I don’t believe that people deserve the terrible things that happen to them.”

“The problem of evil. If God exists and is good, why do we suffer?”

“Exactly,” Zach replies. “The longer I live, the more convinced I am that the universe consists of random acts of randomness. I try to do good, and sometimes I think I succeed. Then this happens, and all my actions seem pointless.” He looks so haunted. I want to comfort him, but I’m afraid of revealing too much.

“Adding to the good in the world can never be pointless,” I tell him. “It’s like music—people ask what art is for; I think it adds to the sum total of joy, and joy is good. Music offsets evil. We store up joy against bad times.”