Her hope for herself shifted to that of a more general, impersonal laying off—cutbacks, quarterly reports, other words she vaguely understood that might sever her from her job without it having been her fault.

“I’m retiring at the end of the year,” Eleanor said. “It’s a little complicated. I … well, I have my reasons, and they aren’t all happy. You can probably guess pretty easily based on what’s been happening here lately. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Cassie did not know what had been happening there lately. Her attention had been squarely—justifiably, she thought, but still—on her own tentative hold on employment and sanity. There was a lesson here, maybe.

“Oh!” Cassie said. “I … congratulations?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Right,” Cassie said. “Well, I know everyone will miss you. I’ll miss you.”

Eleanor turned over a book on her desk, studied the back, flipped it back onto its front.

“I guess, while we’re here,” Cassie said after another moment of silence. “Am I doing all right? At my job?”

Eleanor sized her up. The usual weighted disappointment was back in her eyes.

“I don’t know, are you?” Eleanor said.

“I’ve been really trying,” Cassie said. “I worry about it a lot.”

“Well … if you weren’t doing what you were supposed to do, start now. I’ll give you a two-week head start. I think if you stop fucking around so much, you’ll probably be fine.”

Cassie was so relieved that she felt like a different person. It was like putting on a pair of glasses after years of blurred vision.

On her way out of the office, she accidentally caught up to Greta on the long walk to the T. Usually she tried to respect her coworkers’ presumed desire not to speak to anyone from work after they’d clocked out, but she couldn’t cross the street now to avoid her without it being awkward. Also, there was a cloud of sour smoke issuing from Greta’s person, and this was something Cassie wanted to be a part of, even if only by proximity, even if it wasn’t, strictly speaking, a great choice for her continued sobriety.

“Whatchoo doing?” Cassie said when she was a few feet behind her.

“Mom, it’s organic!” Greta said. “You need a hit to start the weekend?”

“Sounds about right,” Cassie said. She took a very dainty pull from the spliff, which was, she thought, surprisingly heavy on tobacco for a marijuana-delivery vehicle created by a child. It brought her instantly back to her college self, light-headed from cigarettes and lack of sleep, hunched in front of a box fan sending smoke out into the New York night.

“You don’t really drink, right?” Greta said.

“Yep, kicked that shit,” Cassie said. A mother pushing a stroller eyed them like the criminals they should have been.