“See what she’s saying?” G asks me quietly. “The very word emotion penetrates.”

She puts her arm around me and hugs me tight. I can smell pork and beans rising out of her sweaty cleavage like we’re sitting at a campfire of budding lesbian Brownies. Must be the acid, but the smell is intoxicatingly delicious, it’s going right to my pores. “We’re gonna have such a federation!” G goes on, all amped. “It’ll be awesome, Deb. If Toni stays too, and I believe she will, that makes eight of us. Eight is the number of harmony, balance, abundance and power. It’s pure voluptuousness, an hourglass of stacked spherical perfection. And we also got fucking Stanford in exile here. I’m really glad you have Dyke Passages. Lotta good reading and discussion in that.”

“She’s gonna wanna take over from you, G. She’s bigger than you.”

+++++++++++++++++++

What I’m thinking is, we’re back to the perfection of eight—what the hell would nine be? I’d have to ask G, but this is not the right moment. Doesn’t sound half as promising as the spherical voluptuousness of eight, even though it’s the more the merrier in terms of army power. I hope no one read that thought, though, it strikes me as rude. Nein to nine is nein to Kandel. So we pile back into the vehicles and head for Dot’s. We’re on the road fucking one minute when P starts blowing the Caddy horn behind us and waving out the window for us to stop. G pulls over and the Caddy pulls up. Windows are cranked fully wide. T, in the front passenger seat, is so close to G she has to angle the scythe out of her face as she gets all sibylline. “Kandel is leaving by boat right now,” T informs us. “She was hiding in a boat while we were wondering where she went a few minutes ago. I don’t know which boat, but I’m sure she’s in a boat. I’m sure of my psych on this. Not sure where it came from, but I’m sure it’s right. It’s a perceptive intuition.”

Is that a thing? One of the classifications of intuition, ranked according to their reliability? Fucked if I know. T has her battering ram of an elbow up, sticking out the open window, and I swear I can smell her right armpit, as if she could have a wrong one, the cheesy pleasings wafting up into the van, past G and caressing my senses like I’m getting an aromatherapeutic sharp cheddar nose fuck. “Follow me back to the marina, I’m gonna step on it,” G says with no hesitation. She peels around the Caddy and takes off up the road, burning rubber.