I laugh and Jackson goes bug-eyed on the other side of the glass. He presses his face up against it, nose squished to the window, hands cupped around his eyes to get a better look. What? I mouth, as Maya and Lucie go back and forth about the true reason for the call. Jackson forces a grin on his face and gestures to it. He looks like a demented clown. The mechanical ones outside the flea market on Broadway, defunct and broken-down, smiles stretched forever wide in chipped red paint. It’s terrifying. Stop it, I mouth.
