The rides were all right. She was sick of rides, truth be told. As an art-form, they were wildly overrated. Some of them made her sick and some of them were like mildly interesting trips through someone's collection of action-figures in a dark room. The Disney rides didn't even let you drive, like Lester's ride did, and you didn't get to vote on them. By the time the sun had gone down, she was ready to go back to the room and start writing. She wanted to get all this down, the beauty and the terror, the commerce lurking underneath the friendly facade. As the day lengthened into night, there were more and more screaming children, more angry parents. She caught parents smacking kids, once, twice, got her camera out, caught three more. They sent a big pupu platter up to her room with a dish of poi and a hollow pineapple filled with rum. She took her computer out onto her lanai and looked out over the lake. An ibis came by and demanded some of her dinner scraps. She obliged it and it gave her a cold look, as if determining whether she'd be good for dessert, then flew off. She began to write. # Something had changed between Kettlewell and Eva since they'd left Florida with the kids. It wasn't just the legal hassles, though there were plenty of those. They'd gone to Florida with a second chance -- a chance for him to be a mover again, a chance for her to have a husband who was happy with his life again. Now he found himself sneaking past her when she was in the living room and they slept back to back in bed with as much room between them as possible. Ada missed Lyenitchka and spent all her time in her bedroom IMing her friend or going questing with her in their favorite game, which involved Barbies, balrogs, and buying outfits. Pascal missed all the attention he had received as the designated mascot of the two little girls. It was not a high point in the history of the Kettlewell clan. "Hello?" "Landon Kettlewell?" "Hello, Freddy," he said. "My fame precedes me," the journalist said. Kettlewell could hear the grin in his voice. That voice was unmistakable -- Kettlewell had heard it in the occassional harassing voicemail that Suzanne forwarded on. "How are you?" "Oh, I'm very well sir, and kind of you to ask, yes indeed. I hear you're not doing so well, though?" "I can't complain." "I wish you would, though." You could tell, Freddy thought he was a funny son of a bitch. "Seriously, Mr Kettlewell. I'm calling to follow up on the story of the litigation that Perry Gibbons and Lester Banks are facing for unilaterally canceling the arrangement you'd made to finance their litigation. I'm hoping that you'll give me a quote that might put this into perspective. Is the defense off? Will Gibbons and Banks be sued? Are you a party to the suit?" "Freddy?" "Yes, Mr Kettlewell."