Two days ago would explain why she is so hungry. He follows her gaze to the sandwich. “It’s from the Vietnamese place,” he says. “Have a bite. Have a whole half. I’ll make you some tea.”

Padgett shivers. “Toddy,” she manages to croak, but the Vic shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and Kitsune says something like “no” too.

“I said totally,” Padgett amends, but the Vic is still shaking his head. He shakes it for a while.

“No,” the Vic says again, and the music turns bland and zippy, with a swinging trumpet, not his sort or hers. “Padgett, I can’t have you like this. Drinking and having fun are one thing. It’s colorful. But this, Padgett, you like this is wreckage.”

Padgett is savoring colorful. It’s the nicest synonym, the happiest way anyone has ever called her goddamn fucking nuts.

The baby makes a noise, like someone has walked into the room she hasn’t thought of for years.

“It’s not respectful,” the Vic says, “to yourself.”

“What am I listening to?”

“I’m trying to tell you—”

“No,” Padgett says. “The music.”

The Vic puts the tea down. It’s steaming and the smell is smooth but complicated. Someone has taken time with it, the blend or grind or what have you. The Vic makes a noise, a gesture like he’s done folding laundry, surely something he hasn’t done in years. “I’ve been acclimating Kitsune to your favorite album.”

“My favorite—?”

“Your Trail says you listen to this the most,” the Vic says. “It wasn’t even on my system. That was why, wasn’t it? Your old laptop you kept keeping. Well, it is now.”

It’s the jazz record, the secret one. His eyes are not one bit implying he’s decoded all her messages, so it’s just a gift. Now she’ll have to hear it forever, something she’ll need to pretend to love.

If this story is about two couples, two marriages, which one is this, and who are they?

“Of course,” the Vic says, his eyes sparkling sharp, “it means you’ll have to pay to hear it. Everybody will.”

“Yes,” Padgett tells him, but she sees he doesn’t hear it, not for what it is. He tears off a piece of the sandwich bread, soaked with oil, and puts it on the tray of the high chair for his daughter to think about. The baby winces, and Padgett gets a flash of Martin Icke with one shoe, his more or less innocent face. What can she do for him? The answer to this is money.

“Why are you with me?” Padgett asks. “Aren’t you afraid?”