They watched the river for ages. Molly switched from one foot to the other in the damp cold. She was dying to know if Beth would dump her. She wasn’t ready to give up their time: going to old movies on big screens, traveling to the city to taste new teas, walking with Beth by the Charles and discussing the uncanny valley or gender performance in Dante, Molly hustling to keep up, trying to be funny at least, if not smart. So it was a boring life, who cared? No one was wild forever. Would she really rather snort lactose in the bathroom of a naked party in Jamaica Plain?

The hole was a dim patch now on the ice. A shell must have frozen over since that afternoon, capping Chowder with a roof, a warped view of the winter sky.

Beth walked back to Hurlbut. The tendons in Molly’s neck tightened, watching her go. She could follow or take the footbridge to Allston. But the cake, and the mess in the suite. At least she should clean up. Then, if Beth wanted, she’d leave.

Beth prepared for bed as though Molly weren’t there. Molly’s hands shook as she pushed the deteriorating sponge over the burners. She was about to wash the cake out of the pan when she discovered the inside was fluffy and wet with blue explosions where the berries had broken under heat. The high temperature had flash-cooked the interior into a silky loaf. Molly dug cake out of the black pocket and heaped it on a plate. The cake looked like rice or porridge but tasted of delicate fruity clouds. She was hungry enough to scarf it all. But instead, she carried it in to Beth.

“What’s this?” Beth asked when Molly offered the plate from across the room.

“Blueberry vanilla hot chocolate cake.” That sounded better than it was.

Beth took a bite. She made a face but kept eating. She hated sweets, but maybe this was a grudging sign of forgiveness. Or, at least, Beth was delaying kicking her out.

Beth turned off the light. Molly stood there in the dark. Then, because she hadn’t been told not to, she undressed. She laid herself down stiffly on the bed, facing the ceiling, as far from Beth as possible.

“I know he’s just a dog,” Beth said, voice shaky, breath sour with stress and travel.

Chowder had been her main concern for years, her prodigy, her heir. Beth was talking crap. But Molly didn’t know what to say either. At all. “He did his job,” she finally mumbled. “And now he’s gone.” James’s words sounded lame in her throat.

“You shouldn’t have let him off the leash.” Beth shifted onto her back, a quarter roll toward Molly. “Now I’ll have to pay off James Masterson. Jesus.”