Gretchen’s office is okay I guess. It’s decorated in the antiquey style that Mrs. Tyburn uses in her house, but there’s less stuff. Hardly any ornaments. Leather-bound books with serious titles line up in a dark wood bookcase. A desk, a lamp with glass tiles forming a flower-shaped shade, a framed picture of a guy who must have been Gretchen’s boyfriend, the one who died before I came to Swan. He looks like Saddam Hussein on a smiley day. Two seats on one side of her desk, her leather throne on the other. There’s a couple of filing cabinets and a locked cupboard with glass doors showing bottles and boxes of pills inside. I haven’t been in here since she told me that Lolly wasn’t going to make it through the night. The radio on the windowsill buzzes classical music. The room gives off a whole Check me out, I’m brainy and modest—I can totally tell the difference between Bach and Brahms but I’m too cool to brag about it vibe. She’s such a fake.

I’m still standing when Gretchen comes in; she gestures for me to sit. I notice that she’s closed the door behind her.

“Listen, Gretchen, I’m expecting a call from my folks, so I really need to get back home. Could we do this some other time? Or you could just send me an email. Whatever.”

“Five minutes.”

She looks at me with this asshole grin until I finally sit; she fixes her face after that. She has lots of silver hair mixed in with the black. It makes her whole bob shine. There’s a beauty mark next to her lips like an old-fashioned movie star, the kind of beauty they don’t make anymore, the kind of person I’ll never be. God got lazy, or maybe God retired. More likely he got outbid by someone who figured out how to do the whole creation thing cheaper. Now they’re just running off copies, sloppy and blurry with generation loss.

“So,” she starts, and then leaves a little suspense gap. I force boredom out of my face. You are the most boring person ever to walk the earth. “You and Jason looked very smitten yesterday.”

Another suspense gap, but it’s my turn to fill it.

“Is that a question?”

“I suppose not. I just wanted to make sure that you’re”—she leaves another gap, but this one is to tell me that she’s about to drop a euphemism—“taking care of yourself.”

My turn to pause. I feign a shudder. “Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth. Is there, like, a medical term for that?”

“I know the resources on Swan are somewhat limited and I just wanted to make sure you have”—euphemism pause—“everything you need.”

“I’m all set. Thanks.”