When we were done, it was almost midnight. Cricket and Wallis had returned, yawning and droopy-eyed, to wish us a brief good-night. I’d gone through two bottles of sparkling water; we’d had to pause midway for snacks—more bread, honey-roasted peanuts, rosemary-flecked crackers, dredged out from the back of Cricket’s pantry, saved from some holiday gift basket of yesteryear. Atlas had filled up one notebook, and most of a second. Although I’d emptied myself of the story I’d prepared, I felt as full as I’d ever been. I was tired but content, my voice scratchy from hours of talking.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said as he swung his bag onto his shoulder. He didn’t seem sleepy at all; I had the sense he was going to write for the rest of the night. “But, you’re going to be—I mean, I think we have something here, Daisy. I really do.”

Then he was gone. And I, back to my own apartment and to my bed, Atlas and his article never far from my mind.

Thirty-Six

Monday, Miles’s office; L.K. and I were on one couch, Bo and our boss on the opposite, talking headlines, administrative chores, tasks for the week. A rural police department needed three new vehicles. Maryland needed a dam, flood prevention studies, protection for crabs and oysters. Miles took notes in a college-ruled composition book, which he brought everywhere. It was old-fashioned; people either found it charming or excessive. I knew it was utilitarian—recess was over. Class was in session. There was work to be done.

I was sorry I wouldn’t be there to see it completed.

When we made it through the list, Bo had some gossip: there were rumors, he said, that Melinda Darley had chartered a jet, naturally at taxpayer expense, to fly to Columbia to meet her son at a campaign event.

Miles was about to respond to this when we were interrupted by a knock; we all turned and Sara peeked her head in. “Is this still morning meeting?” she asked. “Or have you all transitioned to shooting the shit?”

“We’re done.” Miles leaned back, rested his brown penny loafers on the coffee table between the couches, seemingly glad to be off the topic of the Darleys.

“There’s a photographer here to see Daisy,” Sara said.

I’d forgotten about that. Sometime last night between the peanuts and the crackers, Atlas had scheduled a time for me to have my portrait taken. He’d thought my office would make a good backdrop—the law books, the papers, the dry-erase board with plans and agenda items. Now I realized this had been a bad decision, made when my attention was consumed by the interview. Of course I couldn’t be in my office for the picture. My employment here would only last about five more minutes.