The Money Pit was a wallet made from a spongy material that literally absorbed your bills and change into its pores and then flattened in your pocket. It was revolutionary. He’d gotten the idea while trying to conceal a Barbie arm in the bark of a dead, rain-dampened tree.

“Look.” Tupper stuffed a few quarters and one-dollar bills into it and then flattened it with his fist. “It’ll come in colors like pink or green or red or briefcase brown. I developed the material myself. It’s one hundred percent biodegradable and compostable.”

Elizabeth grabbed it and tucked it into the front of her orange prison jumpsuit, which she’d asked Tupper to purchase from the jail so she could wear it home.

Tupper laughed. “That won’t work. You don’t even wear a bra.”

Elizabeth let the Money Pit drop into her jumpsuit and continued to eat her noodles. It fell through to the crotch area, where it bulged masculinely. Tupper wondered how long this prison behavior would go on. She’d only been “inside” for three days. Every time Elizabeth went away and came back, he felt like she was experimenting with a new persona—affectionate Elizabeth, distant Elizabeth, hungry Elizabeth, surly prisoner Elizabeth. He had news, but he didn’t want to deliver it until she appeared to be paying attention.

“Why don’t we go out and celebrate?” he suggested. “It’s unusually warm for this time of year. We can go to that upstairs bar outside in the park.”

“All right,” she agreed. “I just need to wash my feet.”

It was Friday afternoon and the bar was packed.

“Get vodka,” Elizabeth commanded, choosing a grubby, newly vacated table in the corner. “A whole bottle.” She was still wearing her orange prison jumpsuit. People stared. One man gave her a thumbs-up.

Halfway to the bar, Tupper turned around to make sure she was still there. Elizabeth had turned away to take in the view. Ferries crisscrossed the harbor from Manhattan to Brooklyn and Staten Island and beyond, leaving frothy white wakes. In the far distance, the Statue of Liberty towered greenly, symbolically. The sun was low, bathing the silvery buildings and dark water in golden light.

Tupper’s nervousness made her restless. The boats made her restless.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Tupper brought the vodka back to their table with two shot glasses.

“Icelandic.” Elizabeth admired the bottle. “Perfect.”

Tupper had noticed the letter from Iceland on top of her stack of mail and the particular interest the rich Icelandic art collector had taken in freeing Elizabeth. He poured them both shots, reminding himself to say what he had to say while his head was still clear and he wasn’t about to throw up everywhere.

“I’m guessing that’s where you’re headed next—Iceland?”

Elizabeth’s downturned mouth turned down even further. She tossed back her shot.