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“Why do you want guns, honey?” Daddy said. “Are . . . are you going to shoot me?”

Chelsea sighed. Now she understood why sometimes Mommy used the you’re so stupid voice on Daddy. Of course she wasn’t going to shoot him. Why would she shoot someone who had the dollies?

“Well, Daddy, Chauncey says we need guns. So go buy some.”

“We can’t just go buy them, honey,” Mommy said. “There’s, like, a waiting period or something, right Bobby?”

Daddy nodded.

Chelsea frowned. “Well, you two need to find guns. If you don’t, you’re going to have to punish each other.”

Daddy shook his head. “Chelsea, baby . . . I don’t want to hit your mom with the spoon again. Don’t make me do that.”

“Please,” Mommy said. “No more. And we need to figure out where we’re going to go. Chelsea honey, are you sure we have to set the house on fire?”

“Mommy,” Chelsea said. “If you ask me that just one more time, you get the spanky-spoon for sure!”

“I’m sorry,” Mommy said in a fast whisper. “I’m sorry, honey, I won’t ask again.”

“Not another word!” Chelsea said.

Daddy crumpled the newspapers faster.

Chelsea squirted a bunch of the smelly fluid under the fridge. Would the fridge burn? She wished she could stay and watch, but Chauncey said they needed to leave.

Daddy snapped his fingers. “Mark Jenkins! He’s got guns. Pistols and hunting rifles—he’s got everything.”

“So go get them,” Chelsea said.

“Honey,” Mommy said quietly, “he’s not going to just give them to us. We have to figure out how to take them.”

Chelsea thought on this for a minute. She sensed that Mommy didn’t really need the spoon anymore. Mommy was different from Daddy. Mommy was a protector, like Chelsea. Which meant that Mommy could . . .

“Mommy, stick out your tongue.”

Mommy did. Chelsea looked close—Mommy had dozens of pretty little blue triangles on her tongue. Information flooded Cheslea’s brain. Each of those triangles held thousands of little crawlers, ready to shoot out, shoot into someone else. That’s how Chelsea had given G.o.d’s love to Mommy—and now Mommy was ready to give it to other people.

“Mommy, can you give Mister Jenkins smoochies? Like I gave to you?”

Daddy smiled. “That would work. He’s got the hots for you, Candy.”

Mommy glared at Daddy. It was the you’re so stupid glare that usually went with the you’re so stupid voice.

“Well?” Chelsea said. “Can you do it, Mommy?”

“I . . . I guess I could.” Mommy sounded sad and excited all at the same time. She had sad eyes when she looked at Daddy, but Chelsea could feel her excitement at the thought of spreading G.o.d’s love.

Mommy cleared her throat. “How long will it take after I give him smoochies?”

“He’ll get sleepy pretty quick,” Chelsea said. “You may have to be with him for an hour, but then Chauncey says he will feel sick and want to go to sleep, just like Mister Burkle the Postman. Can you do that, Mommy? Can you get Mister Jenkins to play for an hour after smoochies?”

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