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The man looks at me for help.

“Add the car,” I say.

Vera walks out of the kitchen carrying apple slices. “Don’t add a toy to estate security.”

“It would simplify entry.”

“It would let anyone holding the toy open the door.”

Misha closes both hands around it. “Bad men can’t have it.”

“Your confidence is encouraging,” Vera says, “but no.”

The technician finally captures Misha’s thumbprint. The panel flashes green and gives a soft chime.

Misha jerks his hand away. “It bit me.”

“It made a sound,” I tell him.

“No sound.”

I ask the technician to mute the panel. He opens his tablet and warns that disabling the chime removes confirmation for failed scans.

“Use a light.”

“Children miss lights,” he says.

“Misha won’t.”

Vera hands our son an apple slice. “Or Misha doesn’t use the scanner at all. An adult can open the door and take him inside.”

The technician waits.

I look at Misha. “Do you want your hand to open the door?”

He shakes his head and hides both hands behind his back.

“Remove his profile,” I say.

Vera’s gaze shifts to me, surprised again.

The favorite cup creates the second failure.

His blue whale cup burned in the apartment. I send Roman’s men to six shops before lunch. Every cup is inspected before it enters the family wing. Misha studies the row on the kitchen counter, then shakes his head.

“No.”

“They are blue,” I say.

“My whale looked left.”

Three whales look right. Two face forward. One appears drunk.

“I can have another brought.”

“No more whales.”

“You asked for the whale cup.”