The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher Page B

guy convinced his poor girlfriend to get married at the geek parade. Maybe she pretended it was a good idea, but there’s not a woman alive who’d be enthused about this idea. I give the marriage two years. Maybe four—he is cute.
    â€œMiss? Are you looking for Warren? He’ll be back in a minute.”
    â€œThank you. And a piece of advice. Buy your wife flowers every day for the next year or so.”
    Someone joins us. “I’d rather get chocolates.”
    He’s a big, somewhat tubby man, with a full beard and a graying ponytail. John smiles.
    â€œThis is my fiancé, Mark.” They both smile, as if daring me to have a problem.
    Little foot-in-mouth action there. Nice one, Ana .
    I shake Mark’s hand. “Congratulations to you both.” I notice that someone has labeled the two sections of chairs FEDERATION and REBEL ALLIANCE . They obviously deserve each other.
    I start to walk away, but pause. I know it’s not my concern, but these two guys seem so normal . I have to know why they’re holding their ceremony here.
    â€œCould I ask you guys a personal question?”
    They both kind of laugh. “You want to know why we’re getting married at Washingcon?”
    â€œIt’s not my business . . . but yes. Doesn’t this seem like a silly place for a serious event?”
    â€œWow,” says Mark, “That’s exactly what my sister said.”
    John chuckles. “Maybe it is kind of odd to have the ceremony here instead of somewhere more formal. But this place has a lot of happy memories for the both ofus. You know, for years now, I’ve been called a freak, a pervert, a deviant, a weirdo.” He pauses. “It’s been even worse since I came out as gay.”
    Mark rolls his eyes. He’s obviously heard the joke before.
    John continues. “But not here. At the con, there’s one hundred percent acceptance, no ifs, ands, or buts. This is the one place where anyone can go and not be judged. And that’s why we decided that this would be the ideal spot.”
    Out of John’s line of vision, Mark subtly shakes his head and cocks a thumb at his fiancé. I swallow my giggle.
    â€œGood luck to both of you.” I attempt to give the Vulcan salute, but my fingers don’t go that way. “May the force be with you, and all that . . .”
    My phone beeps. I excuse myself to read the text.
    It’s from Zak.
    THAT WAS NOT CLAYTON. STAY WHERE YOU ARE.
    Great. Now what?
    â€œAna?”
    I turn around. A tall, well-built black man stands behind me. He’s dressed impeccably, with creased trousers, a starched shirt, and a perfectly knotted tie, complete with clip. His shoes are polished, and his ebony hands are so delicate I think they may be manicured.
    And he’s wearing a mask. An alien mask. Not that unusual around here, I suppose. But this thing is all battered and faded. Most of the paint is missing. It’s like something you’d find in your parents’ basement, kept only for sentimental reasons.
    â€œWarren?”
    â€œYes. Duke texted me that you’re having some difficulty locating your brother?” His voice is deep and smooth.
    â€œUm, yeah. He’s not supposed to be here, but we’re kind of hoping to, you know, avoid trouble.”
    Warren chuckles. His laughter is warm, comforting, and why in the world is he wearing that stupid mask?
    â€œI’m a Washingcon official. I may be able to figure out where your brother—what’s his name?”
    â€œClayton Watson.”
    â€œWhere Clayton might be headed.” He gestures to a table. Propping my bow against the wall, I pull up a chair as he opens a laptop from an expensive-looking carrying case.
    â€œI’m not really supposed to be doing this,” he says as it boots up. “But Duke said it was an emergency.”
    I’m in love with this guy’s voice. He’s like a radio announcer. It’s