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—What am I looking at?

—The List.

So I pull that little window up and stretch it and squeeze it and scroll forward and back, looking at The List, his new Web site. It begins with: The Last 24 Hours, today’s date near the top. He has a tally going of ruthless events: bombs—car, suicide, and pipe; triggered land mines; people who starved or went hungry because a dictator or junta wouldn’t let humanitarian aid into their country or because the stateside lunch programs were cut; those who succumbed to AIDS; wars, insurgencies, takeovers, and crackdowns; rapes, incest; road rage incidents; collisions; the number of elderly beaten for their social security checks—they even went after a 101-year-old woman for thirty-three dollars.

And pretty soon I find my thoughts are adding to the types and methods of violence and cruelty. He hasn’t covered half the TV shows, the stabbings over in England, and you know, we’re all just savages. But I have to shake this mood off.

I hand the phone back to him.

—You have a sick mind, I say.

Lloyd gives me a sideways glance and nods in agreement.

Our house, the house we’re about to lose, if you put your faith in Caesar’s and my oracular brother, looks like a crime scene. The media are thickly settled over the lawn and deep into the flower beds that Allison spent three years bringing to full zeal. Some of the reporters stand about with coffees or microphones held like limp appendages. Many are on their haunches or spread out picnic style. There are TV vans and camerapeople in droves. As Lloyd pulls close to the house, the swell reminds me of an inflatable toy suddenly getting air pressure.

—Drive around the block, Dad! Mark insists.

But it’s too late, the van is swarmed. And though Lloyd is a fierce driver and could probably run a large crowd over with ease, he’s not really like that and we’re solidly wedged in. The press shouts my name while Mark pushes in between our bucket seats. Reaching over, he cracks my window.

—Let her get out of the van!

Lloyd slides around me now and gives my door a solid shove. Then he pushes his way into the throng. He’s wearing one of his shrunken T-shirts that conveys his work on both his major and minor muscle groups. Everyone pulls back just enough and Lloyd opens the door for me. I step out, my glasses sloping off my face, and I catch my foot on the hem of my dress. Camera lights blind me as I straighten out the material. I lean over and whisper in Mark’s ear, —I just want to stroke out.

I’ve never understood why anyone wants to be famous.

Mark gives me this look that tells me that at least one other person on the planet Earth gets what’s going on. Voices fly at me again and Lloyd puts a hand up and says, —One at a time. One at a time.

—Do you plan to honor the Gladiator Sport Bylaws and marry Uber? a short leathery reporter asks.

Every bit of GSA information I’ve ever read or considered, loved or hated, pools in the bottom of my skull like spent motor oil. As other questions fly my way, I’m trying to wrap my mind around this one idea: Do I plan to marry my father’s murderer? I cling to the image of Allison in one of her cocktail dresses and five-inch heels, talking to the media. She rarely gives anything away she’d rather not and she’s very good at weaving in the things she intends to convey. She is the embodiment of spin, though she’d hate to hear me say this.

—I’ve just lost my father, I say, feeling the words travel out of my mouth in that same slow register at which everything around me continues to move. —I plan to see how my mother and brother are doing, and then take things from there.

I stare off at the living room windows. I wonder if Allison is peeking through the curtains or watching me on TV, or attempting to do both at once.

—Will it be your mother’s decision? Will you marry Uber if your mother agrees to the marriage?

—Allison has always encouraged me to make my own decisions.

—Did you shave your head in protest—are you hoping to get out of this