Well alrighty then! The results are in and I'd rather go back to 2017 with our favourite characters and no-rona.

I think I owe you a date night...what say you?

As always, enjoy x

Monday 18th September 2017, 2.04pm, Matero Apartment Complex, Roosevelt Island, East River, Manhattan, New York

What Delta Joan Morgan lacked in length and weight, she made up for in volume – which Harold estimated to be roughly 105 decibels. She only settled when tended to and required constant chest-to-chest while awake, which showed in the bags under Zoe's eyes and her unwashed hair. Harold ate the tomato soup, animal crackers and cheddar sticks graciously, in stark contrast to the Fine European dining they were used to.

"I've been meaning to order in." Zoe explained the lack of groceries that didn't have a cartoon animal on them. She had been explaining a lot lately; to the paediatrician on why Delta didn't have a father's name on her birth certificate, to the building manager why she was late on her annual service charges, to her clients why she couldn't come to their aid anymore. She couldn't be a monkey holding onto both branches and her baby girl had a hold over her life she hadn't foreseen. It was all so permanent. And not to mention, ZCM Consulting was dead in the water and unbeknownst to her, its revival was at least five years off.

"Oats and Barnes has a delivery service." He hinted, noticing a few bare cupboards. It hadn't dawned on him that Zoe hadn't had any money coming in in months. Or that it took her 45 minutes to get Delta out the door in a sling or a stroller so she more or less stayed inside.

She replied pridefully. "I don't need your help, Harold."

"No?"

"No. I know I look like crap. But in a strange way, it's all working out like it's supposed to. This is what I asked for." He could help but detect a tinge of sadness in the end of her sentence because it wasn't true. She had asked for John's baby, his firstborn and hers, and whatever else came at the end of that mythical rainbow. But alas, she was a strange statistic; too rich and pale to be seen as a single mom in her zipcode although she was.

"Ms…Zoe. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Harold."

"I don't think you understand. How I've missed you."

7.40pm, The Barkley Gun Club and Shooting Ground, Downtown Atlanta

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Taylor's summer was full of voices, so many voices, louder than his own. The consultative voice of Mr Gregory, telling him to choose his battles wisely. The raised voice of Great Aunt Cammelia whining and griping in outrage that the matching diamond and emerald necklace and dangling teardrop earrings she bought from Oculus Jewels on 5th Ave to punish her unfaithful husband were valued at 60% of the price she paid. The mocking voice of Evelyn, fresh from the pawnbrokers, as she recounted to Gregory that the jewellery was community property and Hamilton was due half. The laughing voice of Bella, as she ate most of the popcorn and chocolate-covered pretzels to the latest Seth Rogen comedy and nudged him with her elbow like he was just a friend. The self-pitying voice of cousin Reggie, dejected from a week of job-hunting at no-one's favourite fast-food joints, completely devoid of responsibility. The somber voice of his father with the news that the Norfolk house fire was caused by neglect and faulty electrics, the housing developer's offer of 30 grand to take the burnt-down nailhouse off their hands, and Jeremy's excitement at winning a $100 scratch-off and his 15 grand share in the same day. The joyful voice of his mother, singing along and slow-dancing with a broom to Angela Winbush's Angel when she thought no-one was looking. The infuriated voice of his ex-girlfriend rejecting his kiss and questioning his motives because being his girlfriend wasn't on her agenda, they were supposed to be friends, and hadn't he heard of consent? His own voice trying and failing to explain why he wasn't the bad guy and give an apology she wouldn't accept and he didn't genuinely feel he should be giving. And last but not least, the calm voice of his sensei beckoning him out of bed in the early hours of the morning to the gun range where all problems would fade away.

John's voice was on Taylor's mind as he fired off rounds to destress from a two-hour Behavioural Neuroendocrinology lecture and the worst news he'd heard all year. Worse than Jeremy's arrival, manipulation, and piss-stained departure. Worse than the birth of a baby boy named Tiger DuChamp, son of Reggie Sr and LaDonna. And worse than the news of Reggie's unceremonious move back home the day before his cylinders misfired, leaving him riding the bus all summer.

The recoil of the 9mm in his hands kept him focused on his target and present in the moment. A moment marred by the niggling voice of Margot, Zahra's closest friend, about a summer in Mogadishu and Minneapolis that made his look like a walk in Central Park.

"She's engaged, Taylor. To a family friend. Engaged. She's only 20, don't you think that's strange? We should do something. Taylor? Taylor!"

Bang.

Wednesday 20th September 2017, 10.12pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

Watching the US Open Men's final on playback over pizza wasn't as fun as Joss imagined, especially since Fusco gave away Nadal's victory over coffee weeks prior. She was counting carbs in her head, well aware that she'd blown any attempt to get back into her old blue Zeta Pi Miu t-shirt three slices ago, not that that stopped her from folding another helping of Meats Amore.

"What's wrong?" John asked, turning the volume down.

She rubbed the back of her neck. "It's CeCe. She's been tore up over this whole Reggie and Big Reggie situation. Aaaaand she asked for money."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I haven't returned her voicemail." He cleared his throat. "What?"

John's track record with the Summerville arm of her family wasn't stellar, so he chose his words carefully. "There's no nice way to say this…"

"Shoot."

"This is CeCe's doing."

Joss felt compelled to defend her. "She tries so hard."

"I know…at the wrong things. Look Joss, CeCe ditched the family reunion and our wedding to jump Big Reggie's bones 'cause she's a nympho for him at any cost. Any. Cost. And Reggie's a spoilt mama's boy who really needs to take this ass-kicking like a man and grow up. Or else he'll never grow up." John couldn't have known how prophetic his words would be, or how rich Reggie would make two divorce lawyers and a therapist over the next two decades.

"So you think I'm caping?" She asked, because it was directly tied to being cut off from Paul by hook or by crook.

"I think you're thinking about caping. But it's not your job to fix their mess, we've got a Machine full of numbers if that's what you want to do tonight."

"You do listen."

"Hey, you shoot a deer and suddenly everything's clear."

For the first time since the Uncle-Sterling-deer-incident she saw the humour in it. "That's not what I wanna do tonight."