Aude looks down. “I once slashed an ex’s mattress when I went to pick up my knife block after we broke up.”

“See, that wasn’t even in my head before, but now . . .”

“In and out,” Aude coaches.

“In and out,” I say.

She kisses my cheeks and hands me the printout of my tickets. I’m rounding the corner to the elevator when I almost collide with Meg.

“Hot soup!” she shouts in warning.

“And hello to you, too,” I say.

“Oh good, it’s you. I was just coming up to bring you this.” She holds out a thermos, and when she cracks the lid, I recognize the aroma as her mother’s homemade egg drop wonton soup. My weakness. “I meant to bring it to you for lunch, but shit got crazy on the second floor. Are you leaving early?”

“Ryan’s mom is going to ‘donate’ a bunch of my stuff if I don’t go get it. Tonight.” I give Meg a side-eye that bespeaks my annoyance. “So, you know, I’m taking a fun, spur-of-the-moment trip to D.C.”

“Girl,” Meg says, her tone empathetic. “Want company? Wait, sorry, I forgot two small humans rely on me to meet their every need. You know I’ll be there in spirit. And . . . I wouldn’t spend too long on the inside if I were you.”

“Did you slash an ex-boyfriend’s mattress, too?” I ask.

“There may have been some defecation left in the saddle of a certain NordicTrack.”

“Meg, no!”

“Not proud of it,” Meg says with a shudder.

“Well, I think we have a winner.” I laugh. “I’ve got to run. Thanks for the soup.”

“It’s a classic combination,” Meg says, waving as I step into the elevator. “Amtrak and egg drop.”

“Like tacos and Tuesdays.”

On track twelve at Penn Station, I climb the stairs toward my regular spot on the south end of the quiet car. I’ve taken this train so many times to visit Ryan. I know that at this hour on a Friday, it’s always crowded, but I spot a lucky open window seat at one of the four-top tables. There’s a jacket, a bottle of water, and a book about the Vietnam War on the rear-facing seat, but the forward-facing side looks open, so I slide in with my things.

As the train pulls away, I settle in, opening my thermos and taking out my tablet. It’s loaded with five novel submissions I’m supposed to read by Monday. Usually, I can tell within five pages whether I need to read more, and usually the answer is no. But I already know there’s one in here that’s promising. A romantic satire by a debut author whose first page had made Aude laugh out loud when she started reading it this morning.