It was by Chanel. Eau de Nervous. Or something. Of course, the last flight I’d been on between Tampa and Philadelphia had been hijacked. So I figured I was justified. Still, Gram acted as though nothing was new or different or even remotely scary. Perhaps she’d already forgotten my tale of woe. The human mind aged just about as well as the body, rarely holding up without developing a few hairline fractures along the way. Gram had been lucky to hold on to all of her mental faculties for as long as she had. According to my mom (who had begged me to stay in Florida forever at the news of my run in with Tommy Terrorist), it had really only gone downhill in the last couple of months or so. She was remembering less, instigating more, and generally choosing not to give a shit about pretty much anything. The rules of society no longer existed, the conformity instilled in the mindsets of millions of sheeple, gone from her world.
