“Tulipomania, they called it. The tulip trade exploded in just a few years, demand was soaring. Bulbs of the most valuable varieties sold for hundreds of thousands of florins each.” Setting down her carbine, Margaret takes her purse from the floor and removes a pineapple style fragmentation grenade. “It came to a head in 1637. Tulip futures were being traded on the stock market at wildly inflated prices. Suddenly the bottom fell out, and the tulip speculators were all looking to sell. There was a panic, inflation skyrocketed, prices collapsed.”

“The bubble burst,” I say.

Margaret nods, pulls the pin, and flips open the grenade’s handle. With a lazy, graceful motion she flips it out the window. I see the faintest hint of a smile drift across her stern features.

“You planned this out well,” I say to Margaret.

“Better than you did.” No uncertainty in her voice. Only statement.

Her words sting me. “I prepared,” I say.

“But you weren’t prepared for Hélène trying to shoot your ass.”

God leapt out of the bushes, landing on the path alongside Kyle. “Where are we going today?”

“I dunno,” said Kyle. “Maybe down to the river.”

God snorted. “The same as yesterday, and the day before. You need to stop going to school; they’ve killed all your imagination.”