“Or, maybe,” said Patricia, “your mother just didn’t want you sitting in the dark.”

“That’s where I am, though. Despite her best efforts. I’m sitting in a dark room, scared, trying not to make any sudden movements. And I’m still getting clobbered.”

“So,” said Patricia, closing her notebook, “this seems like a simple solution. Switch rooms.”

“How?”

“You mentioned earlier your friend had invited you to Charleston. Why don’t you go?”

I protested. Blake was there. What if the cameras caught us again? All it would take was one uploaded video of uneven quality and bad sound, and any hope of getting back into Miles’s good graces would be squashed, understandably. I would have to hold myself to the same exacting standard that the political world held him.

“Fine,” Patricia said. “Stay here. Because it’s working out so well for you.” She looked at me, smiling, knowing she’d just dropped the mic.

Touché, Patricia.

I gave her a quick thank you. I did the whole graceless goodbye, see you soon, maybe, depending on this little job thing. “No problem,” she said, understanding, yet firm. Patricia was nice, but she wasn’t a charity. It went unsaid that if I wanted to return, it would once again be one hundred and twenty-five dollars for an hour. “Be well,” she said. “Take the trip.” Then I was out into the world again.

My route back to the bus stop took me a stone’s throw from P. On a whim, I walked over. There was a dumpster on the curb, and a portable toilet partially hidden behind Cricket’s beloved Japanese maple. In the window—the same I’d paid to replace after the brick—construction permits. It was true, as Wallis had said to Atlas, and I had just discussed with Patricia, this house wasn’t entirely filled with happy memories. But it had still been my home, and I felt uneasy witnessing its evolution into someone else’s.

Curious, I started to climb the front stairs with the intention of peeking inside. It was a Saturday, and there didn’t seem to be any activity. I thought it would be safe. I’d only made it to the stoop before I heard a voice call out. “Excuse me! Can I help you?” I whirled, feeling like an intruder caught in the act. On the sidewalk below, a man, toolbelt, hard hat, the whole ensemble, stared at me, arms crossed. “This is a closed construction site.”

“Sorry!” I said. Then, hoping it might assuage his suspicions: “I used to live here.”

His unfriendly expression didn’t change. “Well, lady,” he said, “you don’t anymore.”

I felt a throb of anger in my throat not only at his tone but because he was right. I apologized again, then scurried down the steps and across the street.