Page 123 of Gifted & Talented

“What will you do?” I asked him. “When your bereavement is at an end.”

“About the accidental pyrotechnics, you mean? It’s calmed down a lot since you’ve been around. You actually did help with that part, so maybe you’re right about services rendered.” He paused, segueing as he often did to levity. “Any chance you’re open to full-time employment? Two weeks’ paid vacation to become part of the Wren family, plus a commemorative pin.”

I rolled my eyes, though far be it from me not to notice he’d incidentally offered me the one thing I’d always wanted, which was to be one of them. “I told you, your magic is misfiring because you’re doing everything wrong. Or you were.” I stumbled over a tree root and he caught me by the elbow. “You don’t needme,Art, you need a mental health professional. Maybe two or three of them.”

“Fair enough.” He seemed unaffected by this, the bastard.

“And what about the rest?” I asked, pressing him. “The nonmagical stuff. What’s next?”

He riffled a hand through his hair, or at least, I think he did. I was concentrating on not stumbling to my death.

“I guess I’ll attend another funeral and then lose my reelection campaign,” said Arthur. “Maybe look into fostering or adoption. Do some recreational basket weaving with Yves.”

I paused to frown at him, not that he could see it. “What makes you so sure you’re going to lose?”

“Well, only the fact that I’m losing,” he said.

“Losing isn’t lost. Your opponent is an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m, quote, uninspiring. My policy isn’t progressive enough for the progressives, it’s too progressive for the conservatives. Hedging my bets only got me voted out in a single term.” Arthur sighed heavily, like someone who’d witnessed the ravages of war.

“So then bet riskier,” I said, pointing out what I felt was obvious. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Aside from an election?” grumbled Arthur.

“If you can’t do something from inside the box, then destroy the box,” I said.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I don’t know, you’re not allowed to just fuck off and do nothing. You have money, you have influence, so you should use it.”

“But nobody willletme use it.” He gave me a wry look. “I’m just some guy.”

“So what? At one point your father was just some guy.” I wasn’t sure whether this was a helpful train of thought, so I added, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Keep trying. Just take the beating and keep going.”

“What if I’m not a masochist?”

“You’re acompletemasochist, first of all—”

“Okay, then what if it’s hard and it sucks and I’m tired and I just want to be happy?”

“Do you think it’ll make you happy to recreationally weave baskets?”

Arthur sounded sulkier than Monster when he said, miserably, “No.”

We trudged along farther.

“You’re capable of great things, Arthur Wren,” I said, having lost a battle with myself. “No, not great things. Fuck great things, that’s just capitalist jargon. You are capable of good things.” I looked at him then, shining myphone’s flashlight on his face so he knew I was looking right at him. “You are capable of such good things, Arthur. And I have a son who needs good schools, and I have a mother who needs good medical care, and I am in dire need of goodness in my politics.”

“So then I should do it for you?” he asked with another air of playfulness.

“Do it for Monster,” I said. “Do it for Riot.”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you think they’ll be friends someday?”

“Maybe, unless your opponent helps burn the world down, sure.”

“Do you really think one politician can do anything?”

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