“It was.” She gazed over my shoulder. “Then—I just didn’t let it be awful anymore. I stopped letting it affect me.”

“How?” I asked, genuinely curious. I would need to work on this in the upcoming weeks.

“You just don’t think about it. Pass the salad?”

“I get that part,” I said, handing over the bowl of arugula and shaved parm. “But how do you stop?”

“I know it sounds, like, mysterious. But I promise you, it works. Every time you start thinking about the pain, and the unfairness of it all, just—don’t.”

“Easy enough,” said Atlas, smiling. “I’m familiar with the stiff upper lip.”

“This is going to be the best advice anyone has ever given you,” she told me. “When you start thinking about your dad, or when someone calls you a name, or you begin to dip a toe into the self-pity pool, just pinch yourself, or scream a little bit. Go for runs, organize closets and drawers, buy fresh flowers.”

“That’s why your clothes are so perfectly folded,” said Atlas. “Now I see.”

“You’re going to be fine, Daisy,” Ari went on, ignoring him. “It’s clear to me you’re brilliant and smart and sweet and everyone loves you. People like us don’t suffer forever. We just don’t.”

Imagine, this whole time, that all I had to do was not think. It was no accident Ari lobbied for the likes of Big Pharma. That was practically their slogan. Bless her heart, as Bo would say. Still, she was so earnest in her attempt to be helpful, I managed not to laugh at how overly simple she made it all sound. I could only hope there was some truth in it. “Thank you for sharing this secret.” I raised my glass. “A toast, to the end of suffering.”

We touched the rims of our delicate glasses together and drank.

After a dessert of strawberries and ice cream, which was unfussy and—I had to admit—pretty chic, Atlas, ever the gentleman, escorted me out. “You know,” he said when we were on the elevator, descending, “once I found out the extent of it, part of me was relieved you’d told me to kill the article.”

“How big a part?” I asked, surprised. I’d thought my choice had disappointed him and he’d just done a great job at hiding it.

“A big part,” he confessed. The doors opened to the lobby. We crossed toward the front exit, but stopped halfway below the massive light fixture, which resembled a galactic spiral. “That part of me is still resistant to the idea of making this information public, knowing how it might affect you. You realize what will happen once I publish this?”

“Exactly what happened before,” I said. I appreciated his protective instincts, but nothing he’d say would change my mind. “Maybe worse.”

“Pitchforks,” he said, miming it.