"Petersburg is what's happening with me," she said, with a hoarse little chuckle. "Petersburg is like Detroit crossed with Paris. Completely decrepit and decadent. There's a serial killer who's been working the streets for five years there and the biggest obstacle to catching him is that the first cops on the scene let rubberneckers bribe them to take home evidence as souvenirs." "No way!" Lester said. "Oh, da, big vay," she said, dropping into a comical Boris and Natasha accent. "Bolshoi vay." "So why are you there?" "It's like home for me. It's got enough of Detroit's old brutal, earthy feel, plus enough of Silicon Valley's manic hustle, it just feels right." "You going to settle in there?" "Well, put that way, no. I couldn't hack it for the long term. But at this time in my life, it's been just right. But it's good to get back to the States, too. I'm thinking of hanging out here for a couple months. Russia's so cheap, I've got a ton saved up. Might as well blow it before inflation kills it." "You keep your money in rubles?" "Hell no -- no one uses rubles except tourists. I'm worried about another run of *US* inflation. I mean, have you looked around lately? You're living in a third world country, buddy." A waiter came between them, handing out heaping, steaming plates of food. Lester, who'd finished his first breakfast while they waited, had ordered a second breakfast, which arrived along with the rest of them. Mountains of food stacked up on the table, side-plates crowding jugs of apple juice and carafes of coffee. Incredibly, the food kept coming -- multiple syrup-jugs, plates of hash-browns, baskets of biscuits and bowls of white sausage gravy. Perry hadn't paid much attention when orders were being taken, but from the looks of things, he was eating with a bunch of IHOP virgins, unaccustomed to the astonishing portions to be had there. He cocked his funny eyebrow at Suzanne, who laughed. "OK, not quite a third-world country. But not a real industrial nation anymore, either. Maybe more like the end-days of Rome or something. Drowning in wealth and wallowing in poverty." She forked up a mouthful of hash browns and chased them with coffee. Perry attacked his own plate. Kettlewell fed the kids, sneaking bites in-between, while Eva looked on approvingly. "You're a good man, Landon Kettlewell," she said, slicing up her steak and eggs into small, precise cubes, wielding the knife like an artist. "You just enjoy your breakfast, my queen," he said, spooning oatmeal with raisins, bananas, granola and boysenberry jam into the little boy's mouth. "We got you presents," the little girl said, taking a break from shoveling banana-chocolate caramel apples into her mouth. "Really?" Perry raised his funny eyebrow and she giggled. He did it again, making it writhe like a snake. She snarfed choco-banana across the table, then scooped it up and put it back in her mouth. She nodded vigorously. "Dad, give them their presents!"