In Third Grade, we all hated arithmetic until Mrs. Podolski, with her heavy Polish accent, showed up and briefly cast a numerical spell on us. Mrs. Podolski was a short, stout woman who replaced our regular teacher for two weeks. She wore brilliant floral print dresses and prefaced almost everything she said with, “And now, children.”

“This is Clonazepam, the generic for Klonopin. We’ll start you off on 5mg and you can just take it any time you feel that wave of anxiety coming on.”

Pinocchio had never heard of Klonopin before.

Kelsey was dead now, but it was supposed to be a Christmas surprise.

The billionaires gathered inside their special room, the hermetically sealed one with piped-in HEPA air, aromatherapy diffusers, and personal attention chambers. The room, rarely used, was reserved for emergencies only, and nobody present would dispute that this was an emergency.

The Prince stood at the palace windows, pensively perusing the panorama below. He was, from his own perspective, a progressive potentate. He protected his people from pirates and other predators. He promoted prosperity. He persecuted the peasants only when they were presumptuous, and he had recently postponed a projected purge of the petty bourgeoisie. Yet on this day he was preoccupied with problems.