The Unbinding by Walter Kirn Page B

it.”
    “Frankly, I’m in no mood right now. My toes. I might need a shoulder there, Kent. I hate to whine….”
    He gave his full support. He offered to drive me. I thanked him. We reached his truck. He apologized for my windowpanes. I thanked him. We shared squares of gum from a packet in his ashtray and turned on the radio and watched the sun rise. And then I made my great request.
    “Would you and your girl want to go for steaks sometime with me and Jesse at the W? Next weekend, say? My treat? As one big gang? Sometimes it’s isolating to be a couple. For me, I mean. It’s too head-on.”
    He nodded, but not enthusiastically. He said the idea sounded “nice,” but it depended. I said that of course it depended. It all depends. But it’s best to ignore this, if possible, and try things.
    “I do try things,” Kent said.
    “So let’s get steaks.”
    I’d lost him, though. He’d submarined again. I sensed that he was practicing staying under and that he planned to live down there someday, with Jillian, the twins, and, eventually, me.
    Men can’t rage forever.

19.
    [Via satellite]
    “AidSat? It’s Sabrina Grant. I’m calling for my Active Angel. My PIN is—”
    “Executive Autoforward.”
    “—is 765432.”
    “Sabrina?”
    “This is Sabrina. Is this North Platte?”
    “It’s Kent, Sabrina.”
    “Malpractice. Wrong. Unfair.”
    “I EAF’ed you. We need to talk. It’s serious.”
    “This is invasion of privacy. Use a phone! And no, I will not eat ribeyes with your ex-girlfriend and Mr. Fake Name who took your runty dog. Whom you’re suddenly buddies with again even though you paintballed his apartment. Or stink bombed or peed on it. What-fucking-ever.”
    “That’s not why I EAF’ed you.”
    “Get off my satellite!”
    “Do you understand what ‘passive coverage’ is? When we open the line and listen in on people in case they’re in danger or unconscious? Did anyone ever go over that with you?”
    “AidSat can listen to me without permission?”
    “For up to an hour, and then we have to signal you. Unless there’s a warrant or something. A subpoena. Let me ask you this: At any time in the last three weeks or so have you gotten the cicada tone?”
    “The one that reminds you to pay your bill?”
    “That one pulses. This one’s very different. It starts as a mild buzzing sound, but after ten minutes, if there’s no response, the pitch and the volume rise at intervals until it’s impossible to wear the ear jack, and anyone in a range of fifty feet will hear it and render assistance, hopefully. Even if your vital signs look good, we assume that you’re incapacitated by then. If your GPS signal is working, we also send in an emergency responder.”
    “I’m starting not to feel so good.”
    “No incredibly shrill and distracting cicada tone?”
    “I think my lunch is coming up.”
    “When I told you about my dreams of raping Rob, were you wearing your ear jack? Think. I hope you weren’t.”
    “It might have been on a shelf at Colonel Geoff’s. I’ve been taking it out. It bothers me. My stomach…”
    “Are you indoors or outdoors?”
    “At the day spa. Shit…”
    “Move to a toilet or a sink. If unable to reach a toilet or a sink, locate a suitable widemouthed receptacle. If you feel dizzy or light-headed, remain in place and kneel with head tipped forward—”
    “Don’t tell me how to puke! Oh, God. Oh, shit…”
    “Relax, Sabrina. Let it come. That’s good. If it feels like it wants to come again—”
    “Oh, hell…”
    “It’s scary, I know. Just let it have its way. Good one. Be sure not to aspirate the vomitus. If vomitus should lodge inside the airway, clear it with a finger. Another good one. Breathing looks normal, pulse is…Sabrina?”
    “Guggh…”
    “Entirely natural muscular contractions.”
    “It’s over now. I’m emptied out, I think.”
    “It’s best not to stand yet. Stay kneeling. Proud of you.”
    “Will you please, just please,