“No.” He pressed two fingers to his forehead, a gesture like shooting himself. “I don’t have insurance.”

“Oh.” We, all three of us, considered this.

“How much does an ambulance cost?” I hazarded. Agnes put her pointer finger between her teeth, and worried at the flesh on the edge of her nail.

“Probably more, if it’s a helicopter.”

Arthur stretched out on the couch, letting the bones of his back crack. “I don’t want to impose,” he said. “Don’t let me impose.”

* * *

Agnes decided that I should make dinner while she and Arthur talked about what to do. I always made dinner, but I did not like the way that Arthur looked at my hands as they moved over the food, the pots, the measuring spoon. On the couch, the two of them leaned their heads together. The electric light slicked up Agnes’s platinum hair, so it shone like butterfly wings.

I wanted to make her something simple and warm that night, mushrooms over rice. I sorted out the cremini mushrooms, round as tulip bulbs, and dropped them sizzling into the buttered panned. A thick, earthy smell rose over us as they cooked. Arthur was telling Agnes about his job. He did design work for an ad agency, he said, “but that’s boring. You don’t want to hear about that. I don’t even want to be doing that. It’s temporary. I went to art school.” He smiled at her, like a slice in an apple.

Out of the deep wicker chair, Agnes leaned toward him. “I draw, actually.” I dumped the mushrooms out of the pan and set them aside, poured in the rice.

“Do you really?”

“I’m not very good.”

“You are.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Arthur said at the same time, speaking over me.

“Well.” Agnes bowed her head a little. “Thank you.” She turned around in the chair to look at me, resting her chin on its woven top. I opened my hand over the pot and dropped in the green onions, sliced in thin, fine circles. “That smells great. Do you need help?” She poured herself sideways out of the chair, starting to rise.

“Actually”—Arthur raised his head—“do you think you could get me a glass of water?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Agnes knocked her hip against mine as she slipped into the kitchenette. I bunched the fresh thyme in my palm. Under the bright kitchen light, the sweat on her back glittered, a sleek expanse of white like the skin of a seal, with the straps of her bra and her dress pressing into it. Agnes is self-conscious about that, those places where her clothing sinks into her body instead of lying flat against it, but it’s always made me want to run my finger under that strap, smooth those red marks.