Free Bedbugs by Ben H. Winters

an ugly incident. A tall, coolest-dad-at-the-playground kind of character, in a tailored sport coat and black jeans, eyes locked on his BlackBerry as he pushed his daughter on the swing, gave the girl a too-hard shove and sent her flying. The kid, a frail, dark-haired girl of five or six, landed headfirst on a jutting edge of rock and came up wailing, gushing blood. The mother ran over from a bench while the father furtively jammed his BlackBerry in his pocket.
    “Can I get you something?” Susan called out, lifting Emma from her swing and rushing over. “Does she need a bandage? Should we call an ambulance?”
    The mother didn’t respond, focused on the girl, cradling her head and daubing at the cut with a wet paper towel. Mr. BlackBerry, however, turned to Susan with open irritation. “An ambulance?” he said. “No, it’s nothing. She’ll be fine.”
    It didn’t look like nothing to Susan, but it was also none of her business.
    “Is she OK?” asked Emma, craning around in her stroller seat, as Susan wheeled her out the gates of the playground.
    “Yes, doll,” said Susan. “Of course.”
    Susan cast her own glance backward at the frightened girl, who was rising unsteadily, reddish streaks caked to her forehead. She thought of the awful dream she’d had the other night: The stroller slamming into the ground and bursting like a bomb, sending fountains of blood spraying into the sky. She thought of the rusty smudge on the back of the photograph; she thought of poor Catastrophe the cat, starving and mad in the bonus room, white spit and pink blood foaming the corners of his mouth.
    *
    “Alex? Hey.”
    They had just returned home, and Susan answered her iPhone on the first ring. It was 4:45 p.m.
    “Hey, babe. How are you?”
    “I called this morning. Did you get my message?”
    “What? Yeah. Oh—I mean, I think so. This morning?”
    Alex’s voice carried an undertone, a subtle tightness, indicating to Susan that he was looking at his computer while they talked. Vic was shouting orders to someone in the background.
    “You sound busy.”
    “Susan, I’m sorry about this, but I can’t come home tonight.”
    “Oh.” Susan felt a queer twisting in her gut. She cradled the phone under her ear while she sat Emma down to tug off her shoes.
    “It’s this stupid watch. It took us all morning to find a new face and get it affixed properly. Now we still have to shoot the thing, along with the sport watch, the Rolex, the one that was actually scheduled for today. It’s gonna be hours.”
    “How many hours?” Susan struggled to control her voice.
    “I really have no idea, babe.”
    “Oh.” Susan paused. How understanding was she supposed to be here? “So, you know, Marni didn’t come in today.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Yeah, I told you on the message.”
    “Hold on.” He yelled to someone in the room with him, probably Vic: “Two seconds, OK? One second?” Then he was on the phone again. “That sucks. I’m sorry about this. We really have to nail this gig. You know that, right?”
    Exactly how bad
was
Alex’s business these days, Susan wondered. She felt a dark pocket of despair open in her stomach: they’d just blown all this money on the move, increased their rent … what if Alex’s business was about to crumble? Then what?
You can always go back to Legal Aid, pick up law-temp work, document review … something.…
    “Listen, Sue, I gotta go.”
    “Sure, sure.”
    She hung up, lowered the phone, and saw her daughter staring at her, her eyes quivering saucers of grief.
    “Honey?”
    Emma burst into tears. “I wanted to talk to daddy!”
    *
    Three and a half hours later, with Emma sleeping soundly, Susan fixed herself an easy dinner of pasta and a glass of shiraz. Then she washed the dishes, cleared the table, and dug the picture of Jessica and Jack out of the junk drawer. She walked straight into the bonus room, set up her easel, and tacked the photograph in the lower-right-hand corner of