Cupid Valentino (the modern-day Cupid) wakes to the blue DVD logo on the television. He’s most of the way on the couch; Yelena’s asleep in the recliner and Aggie’s sprawled out on the floor. He was trying to remember something. Yes. Right. The Kolchak marathon? But no, they definitely got through that. He gathers dishes and ponders whether the remains of the pizza are worth trying to save.

On his way into the kitchen, he blears at the bright green clock on the front of the player. 3:24 am, 02-15-2008.

There’s definitely something he was supposed to remember.

Rountree ducks through scaffolding and leaps a gate, but his pursuer freestyles like it’s almost respectable. He kicks from streetlight to brick and clears the gate wallwise. Rountree could swear he had wings.

He shakes the tail, maybe, with a tripleback over a pedway; Rountree cuts a corner and finds himself eating gun barrel. The gun is serious. It’s also pink.

“Sorry, player,” murmurs Valentino, bare chest slick and hand steady. “Got my good shoes on.”

Rountree’s eyes flick around. There: curvy, short, fro and glasses. Not even his type.

“Oh no,” he says around the gun.

Valentino grins, and fires.