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“What about him?”

“Remember the great bake sale heist of ’02?”

Jack did. He could still taste the pies and brownies and cookies and cupcakes, both when he scarfed it all down and when they reappeared later that night. He nodded, now both hungry and nauseous.

“He figured out the school blueprints, right?” Dale continued.

“Yeah, but we actually had blueprints that time.”

“Right,” said Dale. “But we’re not kids now. Carter works in graphics and shit. If we can get him some pictures of the building, he might be able to figure out a place where a secret entrance would make sense, don’t you think?”

Jack sat up. Slowly, because it was the only speed his body currently had, but the wheels in his brain were spinning quick.

“Dale, that could work,” he said. It could also fail spectacularly, but it was definitely worth a shot. “Only thing is,” Jack continued, “Carter wants nothing to do with this.”

“Right,” said Dale. “That is a thing for sure.”

The old Jack McCoy wouldn’t worry about such a small detail. The old Jack McCoy would know he could persuade Carter with some clever words and that any issue would be smoothed over without even breaking a sweat. But this new Jack McCoy, the one who was no longer entirely Jack McCoy, felt a slight waver of confidence for the first time in his life. He didn’t like it.

“I’ll convince him,” Jack said, though he wasn’t convinced himself.

• • •

Jack was sent to voicemail four times before Carter picked up the phone.

“What?” he said by way of greeting.

“It’s about Greer,” said Jack.

A long pause on the other end, followed by a resigned sigh. “She okay?”

“She’s fine, but her kid isn’t. We’re going ahead with the job. She needs the money.”

“Jesus.”

“But we’ve encountered a snag,” said Jack.

“Yeah, of course you have. You’re trying to steal something from Death, dude, that’s going to have snags.”

“Thing is, though,” said Jack, “we think you might be able to help us get out of it.”

“No,” said Carter.

“Okay, but—”

“No,” he said again.

“Remember the chocolate éclairs?”

Another pause. “The what?”

“You always wanted to try chocolate éclairs but your mother never let you because she hates the French. Remember how good they tasted when we snuck into the gym that night before the bake sale?”

“They were fine.”

“Bro, you were practically high off them.”

“So?”