The Terrier is his godmother? I try to find a place to slot this into my understanding of Noah Ross, but I feel ill-equipped. I realize that I know his preferred chess opening (the Sicilian Defense) and his go-to florist (Flowers of the World, West Fifty-Fifth Street), but nothing about his personal life, where he came from.

“Look, I’m sorry to have canceled—” I say.

He waves me off. “It happens. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” I manage, sounding like a robot powering down.

I glance at my copy of Ninety-Nine Things between us on the table. Everything about this encounter feels tremendously embarrassing.

“I’ve just had . . . you know . . . a . . .”

“Bad day?” he says.

I nod. I don’t want to get into my personal life with Noah Ross. He’s being slightly less noxious than the first two times we met, but still, everything could go wrong at any moment.

He turns toward the window and lifts the jacket he’d slung over the second seat. Beneath it, I recognize the same animal crate I saw him carrying on Sunday on the Upper West Side. I lean forward, and there is the black-and-white rabbit, asleep inside.

“You have a bunny,” I remark.

“You have a tortoise,” he says, like this is the end of the conversation.

“Wonder who’ll win the race,” I say, which actually makes him laugh. “Alice was my neighbor’s. Mrs. Park. She moved to Florida a few years ago and couldn’t have pets at her new place. She asked if I’d take Alice as a favor. I’m really glad she did,” I say, smiling at the pleasant thought of Alice. She’ll wonder where I am tonight, but she has enough food and water to last until I’m back tomorrow.

I glance at Noah, because now it’s his turn to say something about his own unlikely companion.

“This is Javier Bardem,” Noah says, looking at the bunny. “He used to be my mother’s.”

“Your mom sounds like she has good taste in men.”

There’s a silence intended for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. He points at my thermos.

“Is that egg drop soup?”

“It is,” I say, feeling my hackles rise. “It was a gift, and it’s my favorite, so don’t—”

“I was merely going to say, it smells good . . . all throughout the car.”

“My soup and I will be happy to reseat ourselves somewhere else,” I say. Though I wish he’d be the one to leave. I unwisely unpacked three tote bags’ worth of stuff onto the table.

“No, stay,” he says. “I need you for cover.”

“What does that mean?”