“Well, she noticed Palm Tree is still alive and getting bigger, and the other night, she mentioned how he was much better behaved than before. So, yes, you came up. She wanted my opinion on the walker behind the results.”

Did my heart just skip a beat because Columbia University gatekeeper Chantale Troy asked about me, or is it the idea that someone out there has the unrestricted access to Corinne’s real opinion of me?

“Well?” I manage, keeping my cool, at least vocally. “What did you say?”

“I was honest in my assessment.” She smiles, clearly reveling in keeping her cards close to the vest.

“But she wouldn’t stop gushing about how punctual you’ve been. She thinks you’re an ‘upstanding young man’ and the only person that has made the whole dog situation, as she puts it, ‘bearable.’ Congratulations: you have a fan.”

Lion’s directive to look at the opportunity in front of me floats through my mind. This is probably the most direct chance I’ll have of steering Chantale toward a recommendation of some kind. But it just feels . . . weird. Wrong.

“Cool.”

She throws me a strange look. “Cool?”

“I mean, hurray for satisfied customers.” I shrug, focusing on Palm Tree. “Besides, this little dude is my real boss, technically.”

Corinne smiles and acquiesces. “Well, that’s true.”

“Have a good nap, buddy,” I say, scratching Palm Tree’s chin goodbye once we get to the lobby of the building. Corinne smiles and makes it all of three steps up before stopping and turning back to me with sudden urgency.

“By the way, do you have a valid passport?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” I answer. Child of immigrants, after all. I’m pretty sure Dad and Ma applied for it before I could crawl. Not that I remember ever using it.

“Good,” she says. “It’s irresponsible not to have one.”

She makes it up the stairs, the puppy still asleep, and then stops and turns back again.

“You’ll be great, Halti. Wherever you end up.”

I smile. “Thanks, Corinne.”

She disappears up the stairs, her steps rhythmically click-clacking all the way to the top floor of the building. It suddenly dawns on me that there is a lot more to lose here than just a client and polite lobby smiles.

Ming is on a trip to Vermont with his mom this weekend, whatever that means. The selfie he sends me has Ms. Denison-Eifling hugging her son tightly by the neck in a purposeful grasp that borders on the overly attached. To say nothing of the matching scarves the two are wearing. She is still processing Ming’s international future.

There are also texts and private messages flying about multiple parties around Manhattan tonight. Abdel, Dorian and his crew, and Celia Donavan too. I’m not in the mood for any of them. “HH” is a performance I just don’t have the bandwidth for right now.