Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 19: Gimme Shelter
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 19: Gimme Shelter - The ninth book in the long-running Intemperance series finds Jake Kingsley balancing family, music, and media chaos as his world grows stranger—and more fiercely loyal—by the day. With fame fading and life deepening, the Kingsleys and their inner circle face new challenges in love, trust, and the price of peace.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Fiction
Oceano, California
August 2, 2004
The smell of home hit Jose Ramirez before he opened the door. Chiles, onion, a heavy dose of cumin and coriander. Something slow-cooked and red. His stomach grumbled before he’d even taken off his boots.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a quiet thump. The house was cool from the ocean breeze through the open windows. Outside, he could hear the kids—Carlos, Emilia, and Caydee—somewhere between the back fence of the complex and the driveway that led into it, laughing over something that involved a hose and probably a lot of yelling.
It was Monday, the day that Caydee came to visit Carlos and Emilia, and the Kingsley parents—now officially a couple again—joined the Ramirez family for dinner. Over time, a tradition had developed between the two households. When the Ramirez family visited Kingsley Manor, they were treated to American comfort food—hamburgers, steaks, ribs, even a brisket on one memorable occasion. And when the Kingsleys dined at Ramirez Manor, it was always traditional Mexican fare. Both families embraced the arrangement with genuine enthusiasm, each delighted to experience the other’s cultural table.
In the kitchen, Juanita stood at the stove in her apron, her hair twisted up, stirring a pot of birria with practiced confidence. The tortilla warmer was already full, the rice was fluffed and steaming, and two bottles of Jarritos stood like chilled promises next to the paper napkins.
“You’re early,” she said without turning.
“Only by five minutes,” Jose said, setting his thermos on the counter. “Traffic was light on the PCH.”
“How was the course?”
“Quiet. Greens were clean, one sprinkler head near seven acting up again, but I’ll handle it tomorrow.”
She nodded, approving.
He walked over and kissed her on the cheek, then peeked into the pot.
“Smells like a promotion.”
Juanita smiled faintly. “It’s just birria.” This was a rich, spicy traditional Mexican stew made with beef chunks that had been slow cooked to fall apart texture while absorbing the flavors of the broth. Juanita’s mother, back in Mexico, would have used chunks of goat meat, which was the traditional way to prepare the dish, but goat meat was not that easy to get hold of in Oceano, California. And if you could find some, it was expensive.
“You say that like it’s not the food of kings.”
“The Kingsleys are not kings,” she said, tasting the broth. “But they eat like it.”
He laughed, low and warm, then reached for a tortilla chip and dipped it in the broth before she could swat his hand away.
“They coming soon?”
“Twenty minutes,” she said. “I told Laura dinner would be ready by six.”
“They’re never late,” Jose said.
“They’re always hungry.”
He chewed the chip and leaned against the counter. “Feels like a long time since they were here.”
Juanita stirred the pot. “They haven’t come since the video.”
Jose nodded.
“I saw it again today,” he said. “At the shop. Someone had it playing on the little TV near the back.”
Juanita didn’t answer right away.
She gave the pot another stir, slower this time, the wooden spoon dragging a slow circle through the broth.
Jose leaned on the counter. “They say he’s still under psychiatric hold. San Francisco hospital. Two weeks now.”
Juanita made a soft sound—somewhere between concern and judgment.
“He looked crazy on that video,” she said. “The way he screamed. The things he said.”
“He wasn’t just upset,” Jose agreed. “He was gone. In the eyes. You could see it.”
Juanita shook her head. “That poor boy.”
“Owen?”
She nodded. “He didn’t ask for any of this. Nineteen years old. Still a kid.”
Jose raised an eyebrow. “He’s also old enough to make decisions. And the woman he’s with...”
Juanita’s face pinched. “She’s thirty-one.”
“I know.”
“I’m not saying it’s right,” she added quickly. “But it’s not our business. The way that man reacted? Screaming about devils and salt and whatever else ... That was worse.”
Jose nodded, slow. “The boy looked okay last time I saw him. A little tired. But calm.”
“He’s safe there. That’s what matters.”
They fell into silence again.
After a moment, Jose said, “Shame we missed Saturday.”
Juanita’s eyes flicked up. “Not much of a shame. That house is full enough as it is. I’m not dragging the kids into that.”
“It’s quieting down now. I think.”
“We’ll see,” she said, but her tone had softened. She enjoyed visits to the Kingsley house as much as he did. It was a once-a-week trip into a completely different world than the one they had been born and raised in—or even the one they’d built for themselves here in California. A world of luxury and privilege, but still with a solid underpinning of traditional family. Well ... maybe not traditional traditional, but loving and functional.
Outside, a shriek of laughter cut across the yard—Caydee, unmistakable, hollering something about Carlos being a cheater and Emilia holding the hose wrong.
Jose smiled faintly.
“Okay,” he said, pushing off the counter. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Use our bathroom,” Juanita said, just as he reached the hall. “And hang your towel this time.”
“I always hang my towel.”
“Uh huh.”
He grinned and disappeared.
By the time he returned, damp-haired and fresh-shirted, Juanita was plating sliced avocado, and the kids were louder than ever—arguing about rules none of them were following. A gust of laughter shook the patio door.
And then they heard the familiar beat of an engine approaching.
Juanita glanced through the window. Jose stepped up beside her. Laura’s green SUV eased into one of the guest spots, the engine ticking as it settled.
“They’re here,” Juanita said.
Jose smiled. “Let the fun begin.”
Juanita nodded. “And may the tortillas hold out.”
Jose opened the door just as Jake and Laura stepped up to it. They were dressed extremely casually, as they always were. Jake wore a pair of shorts and a faded Deep Purple T-shirt. Jose didn’t know who or what a Deep Purple was, but suspected that it was an American rock band.
Laura was also in shorts—denim instead of khaki—and wore a modest sleeveless top with a treble clef printed on it. Her copper hair was down around her shoulders. She had no makeup on except lip gloss. And she had a prominent blister on her lower lip.
“Evening,” Jake said, offering a handshake.
“Good to see you,” Jose replied, clasping his hand firmly.
Laura smiled warmly and stepped in to hug Juanita. “It already smells like heaven in here.”
Juanita hugged her back. “Wait until you taste it.” She gave her guest a longer look. “What happened to your lip, Laura?”
“A blister,” she said with a frown. “Professional sax player’s version of a groin pull. We’ve been fine-tuning a lot of my stuff this past week.”
“You need calluses on your lip, hon,” Jake told her. “Same as the ones I have on my fingers.”
She looked at him pointedly. “Do you really want me to have calluses on my lip?” she asked. “Wouldn’t that feel like sandpaper when I kissed you?”
Jake thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “Good point,” he said.
Laura gave Jose a respectful nod instead of a hug, as always. He returned it with a slight smile and stepped aside to let them in.
“Kids are still out back,” Juanita said. “Carlos turned the hose on himself again. Caydee is shouting something about war crimes.”
“Sounds like foreign policy is breaking down,” Jake said.
They all chuckled and moved into the kitchen, which—as always—was the center of the Ramirez household.
Jose pulled two cold beers from the fridge, popped them open with one practiced motion, and handed one to Jake without a word. Jake took it gratefully.
“Thanks, hermano.”
Laura was already leaning near the stove, nose tilted toward the birria. “You used guajillo and ancho again, right?”
Juanita smiled. “Of course. And cinnamon.”
“I could smell the cinnamon from the parking lot,” she said, reverently.
“You say that like it’s a compliment,” Juanita teased.
“It is,” Laura said, accepting a glass of wine and taking a small sip. “Everything you make should be illegal.”
They settled in, easy and familiar.
Jose leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his fresh button-down. “So ... anything new on the judge?”
Jake took a slow drink before answering.
“Nerdly’s been talking to the lieutenant. Last update was—still loco. Like, quoting Revelations to the nurses loco. They’re expecting him to be committed to Napa, but we haven’t gotten the official call yet.”
Jose nodded once. “He’s not coming back from that.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Jake said. “He’s not calming down. He’s getting worse. Couple days ago, Nerdly said he flipped out over a TV segment that showed a picture of Tif. They’re keeping him away from the common room now.”
Juanita shook her head slowly. “All that anger ... It eats people alive.”
Jake didn’t disagree.
There was a brief pause, filled with the sound of the kids running past the side of the house again—bare feet on concrete, a scream of laughter, a shouted accusation of cheating.
Jake smiled, then turned to Jose.
“Hey—meant to tell you. I met up with my buddy Andre a few days ago. Andre Heliodorus.”
“The real estate man,” Jose said. “The one they said helps you corrupt the government.”
That had been the angle the news media pushed hard when the Judge Olson scandal first broke—implying Jake and the real estate mogul were using shady influence to interfere with the police and district attorney’s office. Jose had come from an extremely corrupt country, and even he had trouble buying that premise. Jake and this Andre were not cartel. One was a musician, the other a businessman. Rich, yes. Connected, probably. But not that powerful.
“That’s the one,” Jake said with a chuckle. “He’s partners with KVA at the vineyard that surrounds our studio. We had a little business breakfast and went over some stuff. Did you know he pretty much owns Casa de Oceano?”
“No,” Jose said. He was genuinely impressed.
Casa de Oceano was the most exclusive country club on the Central Coast. Perched on a bluff above Avila Beach, it was a masterpiece of manicured design and quiet money. Many of his coworkers at the Pismo Beach Golf Course dreamed of one day working there. None, as far as he knew, had ever made it past the gate. Employment at Casa de Oceano was nearly as selective as membership. Even for the maintenance crew, you had to know someone. Someone powerful.
He looked up at Jake. “I did not know that,” he said. “This man—he is your amigo?”
“Well, we don’t go out drinking or anything like that,” Jake said. “He doesn’t drink, far as I know. Just that expensive mineral water.”
“I don’t understand people’s attraction to that water,” Juanita said.
“It tastes okay if you put some good gin in it,” Laura offered.
“But we get along,” Jake said. “He’s a good man. Shrewd at business. Killer instincts. The whole deal. A little bit snooty—different snooty than Greg Oldfellow—but charming all the same. Anyway, we were talking, just shootin’ the shit, you know? And your name came up.”
“My name came up in your conversation with this real estate man?” Jose asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “We were talking about the kids and I told him that Caydee came over here on Mondays to play. Then we talked about Carlos and Emilia and how much she likes them. And somehow, I don’t know how, but I mentioned to him that Carlos and Emilia’s papa was a maintenance supervisor over at Pismo Beach. This got his attention.”
“It did?”
Jake took another sip of his beer and leaned casually against the counter.
“I mentioned you’d been running the crew over at Pismo for years. Said you knew your way around a golf course.”
Jose nodded slowly, not saying anything yet.
Jake went on. “Turns out Casa de Oceano’s short on maintenance supervisors. Like, real short. Andre said they’ve been having trouble finding people who are both qualified and reliable. He’s not involved in the day to day operations himself, but he keeps an eye on things. Says when they open listings, they get flooded. Can’t pick through so many apps and separate the wheat from the chaff. So they rely on word of mouth.”
“That makes sense,” Jose said slowly, wondering if this conversation was heading where he hoped it was.
It was.
Jake reached into his back pocket and pulled out a neatly folded slip of paper.
“He gave me this,” he said, handing it over. “It’s the number for the head groundskeeper over there. Scottish guy named Callum. Andre said he talks about the course like it’s a living thing—a woman with personality and charms, and a good helping of bitchiness and disdain.”
Jose unfolded the paper. A name and a number. Nothing else.
“He said if you call, they’ll set up an interview. No promises beyond that. Just ... you’ll get in the door.”
Jake said it simply. No fanfare. No smugness. Just a friend passing along something useful.
Jose looked at the paper again. Then at Jake.
“Gracias,” he said quietly. “This could be a great opportunity.”
Jake nodded. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. Obviously I can’t vouch for your groundskeeping skills, but I can vouch for your character. And I did.”
Jose didn’t say anything for a moment. He didn’t need to. He understood what this was—and what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t strings being pulled. It was just a man who happened to know another man, passing along a chance. A real one.
Laura sipped her wine and smiled at Juanita. “You know, I think this is the first quiet moment we’ve had in days.”
Juanita tapped the spoon against the pot and smiled. “Don’t worry. The children will fix that.”
As if on cue, the front door rattled open.
Caydee appeared in the doorway, dripping wet and barefoot, her hair sticking to her cheeks and a wide, slightly manic grin on her face.
“Señor Ramirez,” she said, breathing hard. “Carlos cheated. Again.”
“He has been taught to always cheat gringos if he can,” Jose said. “It’s cultural.”
She gave that some thought. “That explains a lot,” she said.
“Caydee,” said Juanita, “go round up the rest of the ninos and have them come inside and get cleaned up. Dinner is in thirty minutes and all three of you are ... how you say? ... little piggies.”
“Si, Señora Ramirez,” Caydee said.
She turned around and headed back out the door to do some herding.
Juanita turned back to the stove. “Now the question is whether they’ll wash with soap or just splash water around and lie about it.”
Laura raised her wine glass. “We already know the answer to that.”
The front door clicked open and Caydee darted inside, barefoot and damp, trailing the smell of hose water, red chili, and sunbaked grass. Her shirt was splattered with birria broth, her shorts were clinging in odd places, and her feet left faint, dusty prints on the tile.
“Home!” she announced to no one in particular.
From the hallway near the laundry alcove, Sean emerged holding a box of dryer sheets and wearing his usual expression of composed domestic horror.
He took one look at her.
“Caydee.”
She froze.
“Yes, Sean?”
“Those clothes,” he said, enunciating each syllable like a sentence from a judge, “go directly into the laundry hamper. I see sauce, I see dirt, and what appears to be a tortilla fragment welded to your shoulder.”
She looked down. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s a textile emergency,” he said, pivoting toward the laundry room. “Hamper. Immediately. Pre-treatment window is closing.”
“Okay okay, I will!”
She started to dart past him but was intercepted by Westin, who was wiping down the edge of the gallery sideboard as part of his final sweep.
“Not so fast, Crow Whisperer.”
Caydee skidded to a stop.
“Your creature is calling for you again,” he said, tone dry. “You were not here to provide his afternoon snack and he has let us know that by repeatedly screeching your name in varying degrees of indignation. I’d suggest you get out there and deal with him before ‘eating crow’ becomes more than just an expression.”
Her face lit up. “Pa-Ho?”
“No, the other crow who shows up three times a day screeching your name.”
“I’m going now!” she called, pivoting toward the back of the house.
“Hamper,” Sean reminded her from the hallway.
“After Pa-Ho!” she shouted, vanishing.
Jake and Laura entered behind her at a more reasonable pace, smiling at the chaos. Laura dropped her keys in the bowl with a clink.
“She’s going straight to the railing, isn’t she?” Jake asked.
“She’ll probably try to apologize to him for being late,” Laura said.
Outside, faint but unmistakable, came the sharp, three-part KAY-DEE, KAY-DEE, KAY-DEE from the crown of the wind-stripped oak just beyond the deck.
It was Pa-Ho. Again.
He’d only started saying her name a few weeks ago, but he had certainly embraced it fully since then. Eventually, he dropped the melody and kept only the cadence—three sharp calls in quick succession, at every feeding time for summer avian visitors. 8:00 AM, noon, and 3:30 PM. He showed up within five minutes of the appointed time and began his routine. And if Caydee was not here—as she had not been today—he would call her name for the better part of thirty minutes before giving up and flapping away. And he would likely return once or twice and call for her again.
Now, other crows were joining in. The crows that showed up for the sunset guitar-sing concerts. They still did not come when the popcorn was distributed—Jake wondered if crows were smart enough to keep something like that secret—but they showed up in force for the sunset concerts. Only Pa-Ho was brave enough to land on the railing of the deck, but the others watched from the trees, and many of them had learned to call their mystic guitarist by name when requesting her performance.
Jake and Laura stepped into the entertainment room and were immediately greeted by the familiar noise vortex of Kingsley Manor on a Monday night.
Cap was wearing a plastic mixing bowl on his head and running tight circles around the ottoman, shrieking with glee. Celia was on the floor trying to get socks on him, which was about as effective as catching fish with chopsticks.
Yami sat on the recliner with a well-worn paperback in her lap, occasionally glancing up at Kira, who was sitting cross-legged on the carpet flipping through a stack of coloring books and muttering about broken crayons.
On the far end of the couch, Liz and Little Stevie were curled into each other like ivy. Since going public, they’d become aggressively snuggly—borderline unwatchable. Stevie was rubbing lazy circles on her back while Liz twirled his hair between her fingers like it was her personal stress ball.
“Jesus,” Laura muttered. “Get a room.”
“We gave them one,” Celia said, not looking up. “Unfortunately, this is still America.”
At the built-in desk by the window, Nerdly and Kelvin were hunched over a beige Compaq laptop surrounded by scattered schematics, bits of coiled wire, and what looked like the guts of a disassembled sound transducer. They both wore bulky, foam-padded headphones—classic RadioShack specials—and were nodding in rhythm to something that clearly wasn’t playing aloud.
Jake wandered over, beer still in hand.
“You two still working on the ultrasonic music for fish?”
Kelvin looked up, peeled one headphone halfway off. “It is not for fish,” he said, like this was the tenth time today. “Fish lack the physiological structures to perceive waterborne ultrasonic vibrations. Even sharks, which can detect weak electrical fields, are acoustically limited. This prototype is being developed for bats, dolphins, and—if we can refine the resonance—possibly whales.”
Jake nodded slowly. “Okay. But then ... why the headphones? Isn’t it ultrasonic? As in ... humans can’t hear the shit?”
Kelvin blinked. “I—”
Jake turned to Nerdly. “Seriously. What are you listening for?”
Nerdly lifted one earcup, revealing a faint, tinny buzz of what might’ve been static or maybe a poorly compressed mp3 file.
“It’s not the ultrasonic feed,” he admitted. “It’s just to block out the rest of this circus. And because they make us look scientific.”
“Image is not the most important aspect,” Kelvin said. “But it is important.”
Jake opened his mouth to respond, but just then, Nerdly’s phone rang—a sharp, jarring electronic tone that cut through the room like a dentist’s drill.
He stepped away from the desk and pulled the phone from his belt clip. One glance at the screen made him stand up a little straighter.
“Lieutenant,” he said. “So nice to hear from you. Do you have an update on the situation?”
Jake watched and listened. It was the SLO PD lieutenant, obviously—the one who had been given the honor of serving as liaison with SFPD and keeping the Nerdly family informed about the Judge Olson situation. He usually called around this time. Off duty. And likely from a table in the back of the Pine Cove, with a stiff bourbon in hand.
That was how you called Nerdly.
“Yes, this is a perfect time,” Nerdly said.
He turned slightly away from the desk, hand in his pocket, listening. Jake couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but he could see the way Nerdly’s posture shifted—just a little straighter, a little more formal.
“Uh-huh. I see ... no, I appreciate you staying on it. I know it’s been a logistical tangle.”
A pause. And then, “Shithouse rat, you say?”
Jake raised an eyebrow. Liz looked up briefly from Stevie’s lap. Even Kelvin pulled his headphones halfway off.
Nerdly nodded slowly, lips pressed in something between amusement and grim satisfaction.
“Well ... yes. That’s colorful, but not necessarily inaccurate.”
Another pause. Nerdly walked a few paces toward the window, speaking lower now.
“Still ranting? About the videos? The Whore of Babylon too?” Another pause. “No, I’m not surprised. I assume they’ve discontinued any media access?”
He listened for a while, one hand now on his hip.
“Oy vey. He went after the nurse? With what—plastic cutlery? Is she uninjured?”
Longer silence this time. Whatever the answer was, it took some explaining. Nerdly didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, nodding slowly, fingers tapping lightly against his beltline. “Haldol and leather restraints. Interesting. That certainly sounds like a man who needs committed involuntary psychiatric care.”
Another long pause.
“His wife filed the conservatorship? Good. No, I mean that sincerely. She’s had a hell of a month. If this gives her some ability to protect herself and the rest of the family...”
He trailed off for a moment, then nodded again.
“Yes. Napa State. That makes sense. That’s probably where he should’ve been three weeks ago.”
Jake leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching quietly. Celia was now fully focused on the call too. Even Cap seemed to have gone still, his mixing bowl helmet now lopsided and forgotten.
Nerdly rubbed his forehead.
“Do they have a sense of how long he’ll be held? Or is it ... one of those open-ended commitments?”
He tilted his head, listening.
“Right. Until he’s stable. Or says the right things. Or figures out how to lie convincingly. Understood.”
Another pause.
“No, no, we’re okay here. Everyone’s settled. We’ve been ... generously hosted. No one’s making any sudden moves until we’re absolutely certain.”
There was a long moment then—a shift in his tone.
“I do appreciate you keeping this direct, Lieutenant. I know you’re off duty. You didn’t have to make this call tonight.”
A short beat.
“Well, you and I both know bourbon improves your bedside manner.”
That earned a low laugh from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Yes. Give our thanks to your wife for letting you be the sane one tonight.”
Nerdly walked back toward the desk, voice a little quieter now.
“No need to follow up unless there’s a development. You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”
He clicked the phone shut with one hand and held it for a second, thumb resting on the hinge like he wasn’t quite ready to stop holding it.
Then he looked up.
“Well,” he said, “that’s that.”
“They committed the judge?”
“Like Bill Clinton committed adultery,” Nerdly said.
“That’s kinda funny, Bill,” Celia said, without smiling, “but maybe a little dated. You need to update your material some.”
“I do not have material,” Nerdly said, offended. “Anyway, you are correct, Jake. The judge is still in active psychosis—’crazy as a shithouse rat’ is how the lieutenant put it—and is being involuntarily committed to Napa State Hospital for longer term care.”
“Is the shithouse rat really a separate subspecies of the Rattus family?” asked Kelvin. “It would seem a biologically inferior niche to occupy. Portable toilets, while frightening and malodorous, do not contain a food source to support an entire subspecies.”
“It’s just an expression, Kelvinator,” Jake told him. “Like rats deserting a sinking ship, or ‘you dirty rat,’ or ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass.’”
Kelvin pondered this. “Rats have an undeserved reputation,” he said at last. “They are a vital part of the ecological urban biosphere. Their job is to clean things up. Of course they are dirty. But their presence is necessary.”
“We’re still mad at them about that whole bubonic plague thing,” Jake said.
“Ahh,” Kelvin said. “That makes sense.”
“All right then,” Jake said, happy. “Crisis solved. Everyone can move back home now.”
He said it lightly, but Jesus, did he mean it.
It had been more than two weeks since the Nerdlys moved into Kingsley Manor, and while everyone in the house genuinely loved them—because they were family, and they were good people, and no one questioned that—it was becoming increasingly clear that one or more members of the household were getting close to homicide.
Westin, for instance, had developed a facial tic.
Ever since Sharon mentioned keeping kosher (not strictly, just “to the extent that feels spiritually sound”), Westin had been preparing two versions of nearly every family meal—one of them without shellfish, pork, or cream sauces, and all of it with separate pans and serving utensils. The man had a culinary degree and a deep, private relationship with butter. He was, Jake suspected, about one poached salmon away from strangling someone with a cheesecloth.
Sean was no better. Earlier that afternoon, Jake had found Nerdly trying to explain the proper ladder placement and ergonomic wrist angle for dusting the upper corners of the vaulted ceiling in the entertainment room. Sean’s smile was polite. His eyes were pure murder. Jake had walked away before anything ignited.
But of course, it wasn’t just Westin and Sean.
It was the way Nerdly always seemed to materialize next to Jake and Laura whenever they were parenting—offering commentary, quoting studies, casually suggesting different methods for emotional redirection or improved sleep hygiene. It didn’t matter that Caydee was, by all measures, a well-adjusted kid. To Nerdly and Sharon, she was a fascinating test case in a multi-parent nontraditional home environment that they apparently felt a scholarly obligation to evaluate in real time.
And it wasn’t like Jake could say anything. Nerdly was his oldest friend. His business partner. His fuckin’ bandmate since they were barely out of high school. They’d toured together, played festivals together, vomited in the park together, survived fan riots, radio interviews, international flights with food poisoning. They’d banged a few hundred groupies together—maybe more.
But working with the guy all week and then living with him every night and on every weekend felt like running a program you couldn’t close—always in the background, always offering “tips,” and eating more memory than it should.
Jake loved them. He really did.
He was also very, very happy that soon, blessedly soon, they would be moving out.
But, as it turned out, they weren’t moving out.
“We have no home,” Nerdly said.
“What?” Jake asked.
“You have no home?” asked Laura carefully.
“We have no home?” asked Sharon, her eyebrows raised.
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