She'd done it. Sam had finally done it. After all these years, she'd broken her old record. Her sister had started talking, and less than two minutes and thirteen seconds later, Sam had lost the ability to understand spoken language. Record: smashed.

Conversations with Reagan were best described as cyclical. Sam had sworn to herself that this time she'd pay attention, but like Sisyphus before her, she knew her efforts were ultimately in vain. Each time the topic looped back on itself, her words would degrade further and further until they inevitably devolved into a slurry of sounds. The rhythm of the conversation allowed Sam to nod and mutter polite nothings in all the right places, but that would only get her so far. She continued her conversational tightrope act, but eventually, her sister would expect her to say something substantive. Luckily, Sam always had an ace up her sleeve.

"So, what are we doing for Dad's birthday?"

Reagan's eyes narrowed as they met her own. "That's what we've been talking about."

Damn it. So much for her ace. It was time to improvise.

"Yeah, but what are we actually going to do? You need to settle on something, preferably before his birthday this time."

"Why do I have to decide?"

"Because, as you've reminded me every day for the past twenty-six years, you're older and therefore more mature."

Reagan's brow furrowed as she gazed into her coffee. After a moment that stretched into eternity, she looked up once again, and Sam knew that she had her.

"You're right, of course. With age comes wisdom."

"And wrinkles. Ow!"

"I didn't kick you that hard."

"It was already tender," said Sam as she rubbed her shin. "I hit it on my coffee table last night. Hey, don't look at me like that. It's a well-known fact that coffee tables are attracted to shins."

"Right."

"It's true. If you ever need a coffee table, just close your eyes and walk forward. I guarantee one will just appear."

Reagan chuckled. "You're an idiot," she said, affection and annoyance, the yin and yang of sororal relationships, battling for control of her voice. "So, how's life in the fast lane?"

"Glacial. We've been given a mandate to automate the library's catalog, but Mrs. Rogers has been fighting it tooth and nail."

"She's old."

"She's antediluvian."

"I mean that she just hasn't had time to adjust to computers."

"It's been thirty years. How much more time does she need?"

"She's spent that entire time in Saint-Martin."

"So have I!"

"You went to college."

"That doesn't count."

"And where did you learn about computers? Michigan State University," said Reagan, an air of finality creeping into her voice. Arguing further would be pointless. Instead, Sam's attention shifted to the diner's newest occupant, Ada Grünberg.

Ada was a curiosity. Quick-witted and congenial, she could talk at length and with some knowledge on any number of disparate topics, but remained maddeningly silent about herself, deflecting Sam's queries with practiced skill. The information she did share hinted at a background far more cosmopolitan than Sam's own parochial life. Plus, there was just something about her eyes that captivated her. At once expressive yet guarded, she had found herself ensorcelled on more than one occasion by the azure de—damn it, she was doing it again.

"What was that?" asked Reagan.

"I was just thinking about a new coworker."

"Hmm? Perchance a potential paramour?"

"What? No."

"That's not what your face says. So, tell me about your new beau. Is he handsome?"

"Look over and see for yourself."

"I don't see anyone except for the redhead in the suit."

"That would be Ada Grünberg, Saint-Martin High's latest employee."

At once, Reagan fell into a fit of giggles. "Oh man, did I read that one wrong," she said, her laughter ringing out like a loud ringing thing, beckoning all and sundry to pay attention. So much for maturity.

Sam hid behind her hands. "I can't take you anywhere."

"Sam?" came an accented voice.

Sam yelped—she really needed to stop doing that—and reflexively lashed out. Moments later, Sam was apologizing profusely as a soaked Ada sat next to her in the booth.

"I'm so so so so so sorry, Ada."

"Don't mention it," said Ada as she dabbed at her wet shirt with a napkin.

"At least let me help." Sam grabbed a napkin and held it against Ada's midriff.

Ada's breath hitched. "Okay," she said. Was her voice always that husky? Sam felt herself heating down to her very core, a delayed response to her embarrassment.

"What I want to know," said Reagan in between giggles, "is why your instinctive response was to throw water at her."

"It's a perfectly valid third option to the false fight/flight dichotomy."

"Besides, I don't mind getting a little wet," said Ada. Her skin was so smooth and soft. When had Sam's hand dipped under her shirt? Wait, what? "I'm Ada."

"Reagan."

"Charmed."

"So, what do you do at the school?"

"I'm standing in for Mrs. Wright until her daughter's health improves." How was her voice so calm? And why was Sam's hand still on her?

"Oh my gosh," said Reagan, "I can't believe I didn't hear about that." She shot a glare at Sam.

Sam held up a hand in a defensive gesture. "It hadn't come up."

"Is she okay?"

"Sarah or her daughter?" asked Ada.

"Sarah?"

"Mrs. Wright," said Sam.

"Both, really, but mostly her daughter."

"Either way, we don't really know."

"Then why did you ask who I meant?"

"I didn't want to risk answering a question you hadn't asked."

Sam said, "They're in a treatment facility in Connecticut." She had finally managed to pull her hand away, her earlier embarrassment fading from memory. For some reason, she had immediately regretted doing so.

"Is that good news or bad news?"

Sam shrugged. "It's news. What more do you want?" There was now a hand-sized hole deep inside her, aching to be filled.

"So, Ada, what do you do for fun?"

"This and that. Books, movies, games."

"Games? Like Monopoly?"

Ada smiled. "I'd like to think my tastes are a little more refined than that. Back home, we're in a sort of golden age of board games. There are also computer games."

"Oh great, you're like her," said Reagan, nodding at Sam, who threw a sugar packet at her. This prompted a frenzied battle that spilled out onto Main Street, with hostilities ceasing when a non-combatant was struck by a stray sugar packet.

Sam had no reason to suspect that the Great Sugar Packet War was only just beginning.

AN: Thank you for reading