All Cry Chaos by Leonard Rosen

fan of a river delta. He set the magazine aside and closed his eyes, willing enough to see rivers in lightning and lightning in mountain ranges. But he could not follow Fenster to the movement of goods and services across national boundaries. A mathematics of globalization? His purchase of a train ticket yesterday afternoon did not obey the same laws that governed the growth of the oak tree on his terrace.
        He could not make that leap.
        What happened when Poincaré opened his eyes came so quickly that he was able to reconstruct the event only moments later, as he lay on the floor with Chloe sobbing in his arms, everyone bent over him as if he had suffered a seizure. He had been sitting in his chair by the fireplace. Etienne, Lucille, and Claire were just finishing their preparations for a grand breakfast as the boys dodged in and out of the house with their game. When Poincaré looked up from his magazine, he saw Chloe bent over her project, a narrow red beam trained on her forehead. Before he could speak or think, he dove across the room, snatched the child, placing his body between her and the windows, then rolled behind the table. Chloe shrieked. Still holding her, he edged the two of them into the hallway, beyond view of the windows. Utensils dropped and in the next instant Poincaré was staring up at them all. "Laser," he stammered. "Targeting laser. Chloe's head." The child squirmed from his arms and ran to her mother.
        Claire, a hand to her own forehead, leaned against the fireplace for support. Etienne knelt beside his father and put a hand to his cheek.
        "Chloe—she's alright?"
        "The boys were playing, Papa. They found a laser pointer in my bag. Just before we came down, I gave a presentation in Paris. They were playing. " Etienne sat him up. "Lucille. Please, some water."
        "Chloe?"
        The child turned and sniffled. Etienne nudged her into his father's arms. "She's fine—see?"
        "Papi, you scared me." Chloe put a hand to his cheek.
        Poincaré pulled her close and waited for Lucille's return. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said over and over, fighting for composure. They must see him strong. "I have something to tell you," he said as Claire knelt beside him. "I have difficult news."

        In their room that night, the window open to a hint of summer, Poincaré lay waiting for Claire, who had gone to check on the children. The bedroom door creaked open and she went to a bureau to comb out her hair before climbing into bed. No one could say how old the bed was—possibly older than the farmhouse itself, the documents for which could be traced back three hundred years. It had come to them along with every other well-used furnishing as part of the sale. Claire gave everything to the parish church save the farm table by the hearth and the bed, which had seen who knew how many births and deaths. Poincaré watched her tie a scarf through her hair before turning off the light.
        She drew close beneath the duvet. Her head rose and fell with his breathing. "Henri," she said. "How bad is this?"
        "Bad," he answered.
        "Will that man hurt us?"
        "I'm afraid he'll try."
        "We can't hide. I won't do that, you know."
        He listened for unusual sounds in the night and relaxed only on realizing that if professionals came, Claire and the others would be dead before anyone heard a thing. He could say none of this. He hardly knew how to speak of Banović to himself.
        "We'll do what we have to," she said. "Interpol will protect us. It's you I'm worried about. You're already a challenge to live with. You're about to become impossible."
        He stroked her hair.
        "We'll be alright," she said. "You know, Etienne laughed at me just now."
        "Why?"
        "Because when he came to check on the children, I was already checking on them. We stood there a moment, watching them sleep."
        "Then he's no