“Are you leaving?” Zania said. She looked troubled by the idea.

“In an hour or so,” I told her, and turned away, cupping the phone. “I’m sorry,” I said to Kaye. “Can I call you back?”

“Of course. You should go. And let me know if she comes,” said Kaye, already fading.

I hung up and turned to Zania. “It’s really tight out here. For a truck,” I said to her, gesturing at the wedge of curb space not already occupied by parked cars.

“There’s a back door,” Zania said. “The gallery has reserved spots back there. Where did you park?”

“I got dropped off,” I lied.

“You should take a reserved spot next time,” she insisted. “Don’t pay the meters of this corrupt city.”

The others glanced up as we entered. They were down to the last shoes, but they needed so many more. Instead of looking closer to finished, the elegant room looked violated by heaps of junk.

I told Zania I would search for the key, but she was already pulling open a desk drawer, handing me a gold one attached to a keychain that was a blank white cube.

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Did he have this specially made?”

Zania shrugged. If she’d known where the key was, she could have gotten the dolly herself, so I wasn’t sure why she’d followed me outside. Her face registered nothing but a slight impatience. As in, Do your job, gallerina. I walked down the hall to the only door and unlocked it. A murmur of conversation began behind me, and I paused, trying to catch it.

“. . . and she’s paranoid she did something to offend my dad,” Zania said. “He won’t say. He didn’t fire her, though.”

“Well, it’s not an improvement,” said Layla’s voice, “so hopefully it is temporary.”

Pearson muttered something indistinct.

“I thrive on judging,” said Layla. “I mean, who would ever wear this sandal? It looks like a straitjacket for a hamster.”

“Norwegian hippie hamster,” said Erik. “With relatives in the mafia.” Then, “Nelson’s probably paying her more than Hal is paying us.”

“I’m going to be so late for class today,” said Zania. “Undergrad sucks. You can’t fathom how oppressive my schedule is.”

“Actually, we can,” Pearson pointed out. “We already got our BAs.”

“I blocked mine out,” said Layla.

I pushed open the door to Nelson’s office and slid through, leaving it open a crack. Beyond stretched a sitting area with a turquoise modernist couch and two chairs, an oval of orange carpet. This must have been where Nelson met his clients. Bright, clean, and a little too empty. This was your groomed future, complete with an artwork you just had to buy.