At 11:45 PM, the Harts came home, flushed with champagne and good gossip. Mrs. Hartwell pressed an extra fifty into Chloe’s hand. “You’re a lifesaver. Leo didn’t wake up, did he?”
“See? Not real. Purple squirrels don’t exist. You’re safe.”
“Bad dream,” he whispered.
At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’ living room, barefoot on their Persian rug, wearing Mrs. Hartwell’s cashmere throw like a ceremonial robe. She had the surround sound on low—just enough to feel the bass in her ribs. She’d selected The Lost City , a dumb, glossy adventure movie that cost $20 million to make and required zero brain cells. In her left hand: a glass of the dad’s limited-release Hazy IPA. In her right: the remote.
“Purple.”
She climbed into her own cold bed, still smelling faintly of Mrs. Hartwell’s fancy lotion, and smiled.
The entertainment never ended. It just changed zip codes.
