From the Grounds Up by Sandra Balzo

Russian version of Cornell University.'
    'Yeah,' I said before Sarah blew a gasket. 'Like that.'
    'Sweet. We are the world, right?' She typed into her computer. 'Kingston and . . . E-I-S-V-O-G-E-L.'
    Through clenched teeth, Sarah said, 'You got it.'
    The girl swiveled back to us. 'Sorry to tell you, but they're both, ah, no longer with us.'
    'Yeah, like that'd be a novelty here,' Sarah snapped. 'We didn't come to visit them. We want their stuff.'
    The girl's face almost relaxed. 'The old people have been dropping like flies around here. I just don't like to tell the . . .' She waved her fingers at us.
    'Family?' I supplied.
    'Yeah, that.' She unwrapped a new stick of gum and plopped it into her mouth.
    'Did your chewing gum lose its flavor?' Sarah asked, quoting the old Lonnie Donnegan song.
    Miss Information gave Sarah a curious look, like she recognized the line. 'Isn't that part of a legend or something?'
    'Greek mythology,' Sarah said solemnly. 'I'm Goddess of the Juicy Fruit and she's my spearmint-carrier.'
    I cleared my throat. 'Is there someone we can talk to about the property of the . . . deceaseds?'
    'Sure.' The girl wisely dropped the lesson in mythology gone awry and yanked a couple of lanyards with 'GUEST' passes dangling from them out of her drawer. 'Put these on and take that hallway.' She pointed to a sign that read 'Sunrise Wing'.
    Plucking the second piece of gum from her mouth, she dropped it in the basket, too. 'When you get to the end of the hall, you'll see Mr Levitt's office. He's the social worker.'
    'Thank you,' I said as we turned away. No wonder the kid was working so young. Had to support her gum habit.
    I peered down the corridor. There was a window at the far end. 'I guess we should just walk to the light.' I slapped a hand over my mouth. 'Sorry. Didn't mean that.'
    Sarah threw me her practiced, sidelong glance as we started down the hall. 'The hell you didn't.'
    'I . . . OK, maybe I did. But it wasn't nice of me.'
    'C'mon, let's get this over with.' Sarah hustled me to the end of the corridor. There was nothing there but the window we'd seen and a right-angle turn.
    'I guess we just keep going,' I said. Two more turns later, we were still walking.
    'How in the hell do the old coots manage this?' Sarah said as we approached our fourth blind corner. 'Even I'm disoriented and exhausted.'
    As she spoke, a leg encased in a pink plaster cast rounded the corner, coming fast. The leg was attached to a tiny woman projecting a scent of flowers and driving a candy-apple red motorized wheelchair with a joystick.
    'Coming through!' she yelled, laying on her horn and glaring at us from under thick white bangs. She reminded me a little of Frank the sheepdog driving a bumper car.
    The woman brandished her plaster cast like a tank's cannon barrel. Sarah and I parted like the Red Sea, me ducking into the doorway of a stairwell and my friend seeking refuge behind a potted palm.
    'Next time be more aware of your surroundings,' NASCAR Granny yelled as she left us behind in a floral-scented cloud.
    Sarah brushed palm fronds out of her hair. 'I told you this place was—'
    Just then, another plaster ankle swung around the corner.
    'Take cover,' Sarah ordered. 'They must travel in packs.' She and I dove for our lives. Or, at least, our skeletal integrity.
    'Hello?'
    I stuck my head warily into the corridor. 'Sophie? Is that you?'
    Sophie Daystrom sat in a wheelchair, cast on one elevated leg. Unlike the last chair, though, this one wasn't motorized. Instead, Henry Wested shuffled behind, propelling the chair onward.
    Sarah emerged from behind her chosen palm and gestured at Sophie's leg. 'What happened to you?'
    'I should ask you the same damn thing,' Sophie said. 'What are you doing to that plant?'
    'Don't underestimate the allure of inter-species love.' I plucked a palm frond from Sarah's hair as she gave me a very sour look. 'We were hiding from a nasty woman in a wheelchair.'
    'Must've been Clara Huseby,' Henry