“You too.” Bob started the dishwasher and joined Laura on the patio. She was standing looking up at the moon, which was full and bright enough for her eyelashes to cast shadows on her cheeks. The moonlight filtered the red from her skin, and she looked completely composed.

“It’s so clear tonight,” she said. “I thought LA was always covered in a haze of pollution, but I see many more stars than I ever saw back home.”

He looked up at the moon, then nodded. “Yup.” Come on, Bob, say something pretty about the moon, something romantic. “Los Angeles is a desert and the day-to-night temperature variation can be pretty big, although there are several areas in the city where there is so much asphalt that the heat is retained far longer than is natural.” Or, alternatively, say something both unromantic and boring, totally your call. “The nights are often completely cloudless.”

“Huh,” she said, wishing she’d brought a cardigan, or that she was near one of those asphalt patches. She liked the way Bob spoke to her. It reminded her of her family, informative like they were, but without the implicit criticism that she didn’t know this information already. She was about to turn and say something, when she suddenly remembered she had a list of therapists lying on her bedroom floor and felt ashamed.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Bob asked. “I think there’s beer left.” He noticed her shiver. “Or I could make some more tea?”

She turned. “No, thanks, I should really go to bed.” She kept her eyes down. “I had a really good time today, you were right about Edward and Lili, they’re lovely. And Clare might be my new favorite person.” She hesitated, wanting to apologize again for panicking, but decided to pretend it never happened.

Bob nodded and stepped back to give her room, resisting the impulse to reach out and touch her as she walked by, close enough for her hair to brush his upper arm. By the time the thought had even formed in his head, she was through the kitchen and in the hallway.

“Good night, Bob,” she said, her voice drifting back.

“Good night, Laura,” he replied, not even sure she’d heard him.

TWENTY-FOUR

The next morning Laura woke to the sound of birds and for a minute forgot where she was. Her childhood bedroom had been in the middle of her family’s apartment, with a small window that opened onto the building’s central air shaft. She’d woken every morning to the feathery elbowings of pigeons roosting on the air conditioners that lined the interior of the building. If it was summer, those air conditioners would be humming, and if it was winter, the pigeon conversations would be drowned out by the clanking and hissing of radiators. In the distance the cadences of sirens would rise and fall against the frequent singing, yelling, or uncontrollable laughter of neighbors.