"Stupid frikkin' island," Katchoo said for the millionth time in the past few days, with an extra edge of frustration that stemmed from the fact that you couldn't yell at or strangle an island. "Plague, Jesus, Francie!"

And now there'd be a tiny blonde trying to drag Francine toward her bed, completely unmindful of concerns such as possible contagion. "Sweetheart, no wonder you look like shit. We gotta get you to bed."