Free Refund by Karen E. Bender Page A

something more to her, but did not know what.
    â€œRosita, put some whipped cream on her hot chocolate,” he said, and he fled.
    L ENNY WOKE WITH A SHUDDER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT . H E sat, his heart marching, in his bed. Then he got up and went to the kitchen. He sat in the blue midnight and drank a glass of milk.
    He heard footsteps—peering through the doorway, he saw Aurora in the foyer. The girl was walking barefoot, in her pajamas, through the enormous room. She made almost no sound and moved through the darkness in a careful, fevered way. She went up to the statues, lamps, couches and touched them tenderly. She walked quickly, from room to room.
    He fled back into his room. He was shaken, furious, wondering if he should wake Rosita, call the police. The girl was walking through his home. Now it seemed that anything could happen—the clock could walk off, the curtain could burst into flames. He lay awake for a long time.
    H E WOKE UP AT SIX, FAR EARLIER THAN HE BELIEVED THE GIRL would be up. After he made his way down the stairs, he realized that his headset was gone. He had left it on the kitchen table after his midnight glass of milk, and its absence made him feel anxious, excluded from the news of the day. He ran to Rosita and asked her to look for it. He would give himself twenty-five minutes for breakfast. About ten minutes into his food, Aurora walked in. She stood, a little tentatively, in the doorway; her face was carefully blank.
    â€œHello, Grandfather,” she said. She said this title loudly, as though they both should know what it meant.
    â€œHello.”
    Her face was heavy with exhaustion. She sat at the other end of the table. Before she did this, she moved a large crystal urn of flowers to the floor.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asked.
    â€œI want to be able to see you when we talk.”
    He eyed her and ate a forkful of eggs. Rosita placed a croissant before her. Aurora was staring at him, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth.
    â€œI have a question.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHow does it feel to be syndicated in forty-three countries?”
    â€œForty-four. Somalia just signed on.”
    â€œForty-four.”
    â€œVery good.”
    â€œYour first episode of Anything for Money had the biggest television audience ever.”
    â€œThat is true.”
    â€œHow did you get Ringo Starr to do a guest spot?”
    â€œHe asked to come on.” He looked up. “Is this an interview?”
    â€œI’ve read 127 articles about you. In all the major magazines. More on the Internet. On the authorized sites.” She went through four slices of bacon. “Is it true that you only stock water in the back of the set so that contestants will get hungry and meaner?”
    â€œNo.” He lifted the paper in front of his face. “Anything you need, ask Rosita.”
    â€œI would like an office.”
    He lowered the paper. “For what purpose?”
    â€œThe production of my feature film.”
    He folded the paper.
    â€œI am currently in preproduction.”
    â€œYou are twelve years old,” he said.
    â€œI know,” she said, as though that were a compliment. “I have read many books on the subject. I am writing a script. If you want to know the title, I can—”
    He marched out of the dining room; she followed. He was not used to waiting for another person, and he could sense her trailing behind him, trying to catch up.
    He pushed open two doors embossed with a gold pattern identical to the doors of Il Duomo in Florence. The room overlooked the rose gardens.
    â€œYour office,” he said.
    She seemed surprised that her request had been obeyed so swiftly; then she walked in, hands clasped behind her back like Napoleon inspecting the troops. She went to the windows and looked outside. The morning sun fell in wide bright strips across the lawn, so that the pink- and cream-colored roses gleamed like satin.
    â€œDo