I stop with my hand on the knob and whip my head back at her. “How?”

She rolls her shoulders. “I know I’ve been busy, but I’m not your father, fool,” she says, having more difficulty removing the second boot. “I know when my son gets his first girlfriend. You miss her?”

“I haven’t been keeping her, Corinne, a secret,” I say more defensively than intended. “It just didn’t . . . y’know . . . come up, I guess.”

“It’s okay.” She smiles. “My son is a private person. My husband too. No one at the station ever shuts up, ever, so it actually balances out pretty well for me.”

Her eyes narrow in on me with that motherly concern I can’t quite handle right now. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll be right back, okay? Potatoes sound great. I’m proud of you, Ma!” I say, and slam the door before she has a chance to reply.

I take the stairs up to the top floor two by two, trying to beat some clock in my mind. I think back to those elementary school presentations when you talk about yourself in broad terms that don’t account for an inner life just yet. What’s your favorite color? Red. What is your favorite food? Fries. What do your parents do? My dad is the superintendent of our building, and my mom is a goddamn firefighter. This is now a fact of life.

Dad let his dream of jazz clubs and fame die somewhere along the way, but Ma made hers happen. It doesn’t matter what certificate she still needs to complete or the sick days she fudged at her last job to make time for the early days of the training program: that’s who she is now. At some point, she saw an opportunity, an opening, and jumped headfirst into it. She made her reality.

And that’s what I’m going to do.

I walk into the Troy apartment and pet Palm Tree, who seems confused to see me back so soon. Sorry, buddy; not right now. I quickly make my way to the desk, settle in, and open the laptop again with the reverence of a treasure box.

Pleasedon’tbepasswordprotectedPleasedon’tbepasswordprotectedPleasedon’tbepasswordprotected.

Ding.

Thank God. The computer comes out of sleep, and there are maybe half a dozen new email notices in Chantale Troy’s in-box since the last time I touched this device.

I technically have all the time in the world but do not wish to linger. More than anything, I want to be downstairs again, washing and peeling potatoes in our kitchen sink.