Entropy is a funny thing. Usually you discuss it in Physics or Chemistry. But it applies to people too. People, like matter and energy, tend to drift apart.

And so it was after that dramatic day in Izzy’s flat. The lives that had careened together ricocheted back into their relatively unique courses. Well, mostly they did.

Olga took John into custody, had Pablo deported. Margueritte, barely coherent herself, led Pierre back to his flat. Renard, the unlikely hero, unsure of what a hero does in the aftermath as at that point in the story movies always fade to black, simply faded back across the hall to his lonely isolation.

And at the center sat Izzy, alone her flat, her quiet sanctuary. She looked around at her incense burners, the artsy posters and prints of modern artists. The soft glow of her assorted lamps still gave their warm light, but there was no comfort there. The place had been violated.

Entropy, on second thought, is not all that funny. But that’s life, and the story goes on.