I’d made some decent progress on my to-be-read pile of books. I’d cleaned out my meager pantry, throwing away old pancake mix and bread crumbs. I’d organized my bag of bags, separating plastic and paper. I’d taken very old, empty shoeboxes from the back of my closet to the recycling room. I’d watched online videos and fixed my leaking bathroom pipe, and it took only three trips to the corner hardware store. When thoughts of Atlas’s face or Miles’s disappointment arose, I did not beat them back, but instead tried to look at them as objectively as possible, as though gazing at a passing cloud. My therapist was rah-rah about this way of framing problems, and I did have to concede that 50 percent of the time, it worked.

The other 50 percent, though, my fingers reached for my briefing binder before I remembered it wasn’t in my bag. I scrolled compulsively, through my news feeds, through my work email, searching for tidbits I could use, new ideas, opportunities I might leverage with Miles. My two weeks were up tomorrow, and when he called I wanted to sound fresh, rested. I was decontaminated, ready to get back to making the world better. All this I’d have to prove over the phone; Miles was traveling for a summit. I knew it because I’d booked the trip. I was supposed to be going with him—to Paris, of all places. On the other hand, it might be to my benefit that he was overseas when Atlas’s story was published tomorrow. Just in case it brought renewed attention to our family.

We hadn’t spoken much since our previous conversation, but Atlas had phoned earlier and asked if he could pop by that evening to discuss the story. I’d agreed, hoping there would be no surprises, no twists. A courtesy call. That’s what it had to be, what it needed to be. In the meantime, Cricket and I would be spending the afternoon at the National Gallery of Art. She’d proposed the outing in part, I think, because she was worried about me. The day before yesterday, she’d used my key to enter my apartment, and upon seeing me splayed out on the couch, unable to even pull my yoga pants up to cover my underwear completely, she’d tenderly suggested I get my hormones checked. She recommended yoga. I’d been half dressed for it already. She went out to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy to get me probiotics. Tired, I had said. That’s all. I hadn’t fooled her. So today I took care to put on real clothes with buttons and zippers, even put on a touch of makeup. I didn’t want her to think I’d gone off the rails completely.