Her father lived in Boston now, so he was close. She was thinking, maybe in the next semester, that might be the time, once spring was fully on, she’d go by. She’d contact the offices, make an appointment. He would like that. Then she’d show up better dressed than the secretaries, turn heads. They would certainly discuss the markets. She would read up on currency, she thought. It would be a very, very good restaurant, and afterward he would ask if she would be by more often, if they could make it a monthly thing. “You know, I think sometimes I just need to hear from someone like you.” Then, “It was difficult, what with your mother’s condition. But now that we know she’s settled . . .” His eyebrows would knit. Stefanie would silently indicate that there was no need to enter into distressing detail.

It was a small mansion, a town house, late nineteenth century. Stefanie could not recall ever having seen it. Then again, she could not recall not having seen it, either. It was recessed, which is to say, had been built to abut the sidewalk at a time of wider sidewalks, carriage circles. There was a revolving glass door fitted into the original entry, and Times New Roman in gold bore the legend MoDACA: MUSEUM OF THE DECORATIVE ARTS OF THE COLONIAL AMERICAS.

Stefanie pushed through into marble territory, warm halogen lighting, new-carpet smell. She removed her gloves and permitted herself to glance at her phone. Nothing doing.

Damnit, Kathy, she thought.

Now she was saying, “Hello,” to a wizened bat in a maroon wig. This hag, presumably a lifelong bulimic, was ensconced in a round brochure display cum info desk constructed from some sort of gleaming composite.

“I have this,” announced Stefanie, presenting Glenn’s card.

The old woman twinkled. A lacquered talon tapped the surface of the proffered item.

Stefanie retracted the card. “Great.” She collected a sticker bearing the museum’s logo.

Stefanie was applying the sticker and walking. She was thinking that at the very least the museum might have contrived to create an unpaid internship for someone young and possibly economically disadvantaged.

Later, once she had viewed the re-creations of the twelve Virginia parlors the museum was apparently famous for and passed through a special exhibition of early Brazilian maps, Stefanie wanted to pee. A sign in one gallery indicated a staircase. Stefanie descended, let herself into a (surprisingly) dingy WC.

There were two stalls. Stefanie chose the left.

This was where it happened.

Stefanie was wiping with a folded square of tissue. And there was a sound. It was a scurrying. Stefanie gasped and dropped the paper into the toilet bowl. She rapidly did up her pants. Could they have rats?

It was too disgusting!

Stefanie exited the stall. She was searching around the floor. For some reason she wanted to see this with her own two eyes. She stood still, looking, panting.