The conversation turned to the first day, when she and her pals had used a cutting torch on the turnstiles and poured in, wearing homemade costumes and name tags. They infiltrated the shops, the control centers, the rides, first by the hundred, then, as the hot July day ticked by, by the thousand. The shareholders' lackeys -- who worked the Park for the chance to be a part of the magic, even if they had no control over the management decisions -- put up a token resistance. Before the day was out, though, the majority had thrown in their lots with the raiders, handing over security codes and pitching in. "But we knew the shareholders wouldn't give in as easy as that," Lil's mother said, sipping her lemonade. "We kept the Park running 24/7 for the next two weeks, never giving the shareholders a chance to fight back without doing it in front of the guests. We'd prearranged with a couple of airline ad-hocs to add extra routes to Orlando and the guests came pouring in." She smiled, remembering the moment, and her features in repose were Lil's almost identically. It was only when she was talking that her face changed, muscles tugging it into an expression decades older than the face that bore it. "I spent most of the time running the merch stand at Madame Leota's outside the Mansion, gladhanding the guests while hissing nasties back and forth with the shareholders who kept trying to shove me out. I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of the utilidor, with a couple dozen others, in three hour shifts. That was when I met this asshole" -- she chucked her husband on the shoulder -- "he'd gotten the wrong sleeping bag by mistake and wouldn't budge when I came down to crash. I just crawled in next to him and the rest, as they say, is history." Lil rolled her eyes and made gagging noises. "Jesus, Rita, no one needs to hear about that part of it." Tom patted her arm. "Lil, you're an adult -- if you can't stomach hearing about your parents' courtship, you can either sit somewhere else or grin and bear it. But you don't get to dictate the topic of conversation." Lil gave us adults a very youthful glare and flounced off. Rita shook her head at Lil's departing backside. "There's not much fire in that generation," she said. "Not a lot of passion. It's our fault -- we thought that Disney World would be the best place to raise a child in the Bitchun Society. Maybe it was, but. . ." She trailed off and rubbed her palms on her thighs, a gesture I'd come to know in Lil, by and by. "I guess there aren't enough challenges for them these days. They're too cooperative." She laughed and her husband took her hand.