Lucy shrugged and continued studying the ads plastered on the walls of the Métro car, which were mostly for English lessons. Same as in New York, she thought, following Elizabeth out of the train at the next stop and up the stairs. Then she was hurrying along, panting to keep up with Elizabeth’s city strides. How did she manage in those heels? Lucy wondered when they finally stopped in front of another set of graffiti-covered doors and Elizabeth punched in her security code. This time the courtyard wasn’t very pretty at all. It was filled with motorcycles and trash cans and kids’ toys, and laundry was hanging from lines strung from window to window. The paint on Elizabeth’s door was peeling, and the spiral stairs inside were even ricketier than the ones in Lucy’s place.

“We’re on the top floor,” said Elizabeth, charging up the first flight. Lucy followed, pacing herself on the climb, pausing now and then to catch her breath.

“I bet you’ve got a nice view,” said Lucy, panting as she finally reached the top-floor landing.

“You’d bet wrong,” snapped Elizabeth, unlocking the door.

Stepping inside, Lucy saw that Elizabeth hadn’t exaggerated. The apartment was every bit as grim as she’d claimed: the walls were covered with hideous dark green wallpaper, and the windows opened onto the courtyard, with its array of laundry.

“I’ll give you a tour,” said Elizabeth, taking Lucy’s coat and tossing it on the futon. “My bedroom.” She added her own coat, then pointed to the round table with four chairs, which filled most of the room. “The dining room. Also the living room. It’s multipurpose.”

“Open space,” said Lucy.

“And not much of it,” said Elizabeth, opening a door. “The kitchen.” Lucy peered into a tiny, dark room that was mostly filled with an ancient prefab unit combining sink and cooktop. Elizabeth opened another door inside the kitchen, announcing, “La toilette.”

Indeed, inside the small space, which would be a closet back home, she found a toilet, sink, and rusty metal shower. “It’s got everything you need,” said Lucy, determined to look on the bright side.

“Except space to towel off,” said Elizabeth. “I have to do that in the kitchen.”

“How European,” said Lucy, grinning.

“It’s not funny,” grumbled Elizabeth. “I’d show you Sylvie’s room—she’s got the only bedroom—but she keeps it locked.”

“Locks are a big deal here,” ventured Lucy. “Our concierge, Madame Defarge, gave us a very stern lecture about how important it is to lock the doors. I mean, really, what’s the big deal? What do we have that anyone would want?”

“You’d be surprised,” muttered Elizabeth, cocking her head to the sound of keys rattling outside the apartment door. A moment later the door opened, and her roommate stepped in.

“Elizabeth,” she cooed in a deeply accented voice. “Is this your maman?”