There are a few people in suits in the corridors, all moving with purpose. At the end of a hallway, behind a glass door, a woman at another desk.

“Please wait. An agent will be with you shortly.” The receptionist extends a hand to the other side of the tiny foyer, which is the entry to the suite of offices beyond.

There are no chairs, but the opposite wall is decorated with a board of FBI Most Wanted posters. A guy stands facing them, hands on hips, pushing back the fall of his windbreaker.

Emma stands nearby and checks her watch. Cooper said ten, and it’s edging toward ten past. She could’ve come at ten thirty, slept in an extra half hour.

Last night’s motel off Route 1 turned out to be seedier than she would’ve liked, but the woman in the diner poured her extra coffee. It was probably on account of her hair, Emma thinks. She wears a scarf over it occasionally, which makes her look like a cancer patient. She’s found that it’s sometimes better to look like a cancer patient than to deal with random strangers sneering at her.

Yesterday she wore her scarf. Now she’s here without it, in the foyer of Behavioral Science, as the boy to her right continues his contemplation of the Most Wanted posters. He has pressed cargo pants and his collar is stiff and neat. He checks his watch, and Emma realizes they are both waiting. This is a waiting area, though. There are many offices. She wonders why Cooper didn’t have her directed to wait in his.

Emma anchors herself in the solid press of her feet on the concrete floor, her hands in her pockets, shoulders square. She’s relieved to find herself steady, holding firm.

Then she rubs a hand across her head and it arrives: She has not seen anyone in this building so far who is younger than their midtwenties. She is young. The guy beside her is young. They could be the only young people in the building, and they are both waiting here.

When she turns, he is already looking at her.

“I’m thinking… I’m thinking maybe we should introduce ourselves,” he says.

He has very dark hair and eyes, olive skin. He holds out his hand.

“Bell, Travis J.” He doesn’t squeeze her fingers out of existence. It’s a short, professional handshake. “I’m waiting on Special Agent Cooper and I believe you might be, too.”

“I am. I mean, yes. I’m Emma Lewis.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

She absorbs his accent: southern, probably Texas with that laconic delivery, and if she had to guess she’d say army brat or law enforcement trainee. After the handshake, they return to standing side by side, like a pair of trout who’ve somehow found themselves swimming together against the current. Through the glass door, Emma sees a figure approaching. When she straightens, Bell does the same and speaks out of the corner of his mouth.

“Were you told about a unit? I was told there was going to be a unit.”