There she was, holding court, talking about the individual works, their relation to what had been happening in the city when they were painted. Her knowledge on the topic was encyclopedic. There had been little codified information to be found, of course, with New York in such a shambles in those days. Evann, after things had settled down after the explosion, had traveled all over the city, and to many other places, tracking down people who had lived in those streets, speaking to them, recording them, hearing their stories. Alejandro hadn’t know her before, but he suspected there had been something like ennui radiating through her life. After she left the hospital, after she and her father took Alejandro in, there had been nothing like that. Her life had had purpose. She wanted to become, and eventually succeeded in becoming, the biggest collector of and expert on the artist that had sprung up in New York City in those months after Superstorm Bernice.

Evann and an older woman fell deep into conversation, separating from the crowd around her and the light talk it inspired. The woman was in her seventies or eighties, an age that, in the current conditions, spoke of the wealth needed to withstand all that had come. Alejandro couldn’t judge her. After he’d moved in with Evann and her family, he had had all the luxury he’d ever dreamed of having. He had been bought new clothes and electronics, had servants, been doted upon, spoiled. He’d been sent to prep school inland, then college, then medical school. The tall, well-groomed, perfectly coifed man that he caught the reflection of in the glass doors was a product of privilege, no doubt.

As was this older woman dripping ostentatiously with jewelry. Her glasses hung on a jeweled cord that was pure affectation—no one of her background would have anything less than perfect eyesight, even at her age. She probably only wore those glasses for the excess of the cord, for the chance to position diamonds at the outer edges of the cat-eye rim. Alejandro listened as she leaned in close to Evann and spoke.

“Dear, I am quite interested in The Artist’s last piece,” she said in a voice that creaked at the edges of words.

Evann smiled, though, well as Alejandro knew her, he could tell it was insincere even if no one else suspected.

“Of course none of them are for sale,” Evann said. “The purpose of this show is to let others view the collection, not the sale of any of the pieces. And, of course, that piece is particularly dear to me.”