Okay. So she had looked at that one. She would be fine as long as she didn’t look at the next one, the close-up of him as he stood alone onstage. She would not look at that. No. She would not. Except…she was already doing it. There he was, his shirt hanging open to the third button. That wide mouth that was always on the verge of a slow smile…

“You know what would be great,” Scarlett mumbled to herself, “is if I could get some more reminders…”

“O’Hara!” a voice yelled. “In here!”

The voice seemed to be coming from the kitchen, but the kitchen was fully visible from the living room—just a sleek pathway of granite and stainless steel, divided off by a bar where you could sit and eat. Scarlett walked around and found Mrs. Amberson sitting on the sparkling floor, wrestling the Styrofoam insert out of a box. She had changed into her normal clothes—stretchy yoga stuff. She had a pair of scissors in her mouth. Her lips were holding the tip, in a dangerous and unbalanced way. She took them out to speak again.

“Did that maniac talk to you?” she asked. “Every time I even cross the lobby that deranged hobbit comes after me, screaming about boxes. I have read the building rules. Repeatedly. I can move in from nine in the morning until six in the afternoon. That is my right.”

She passed the scissors to Scarlett a little too roughly, almost stabbing her in the palm.

“What does he expect?” she went on, gripping the box with her knees and yanking away. “That no one should ever be allowed to move in or out?”

The contents of the box yielded to Mrs. Amberson’s efforts, and she produced a sarcophagus of foam, which she managed to crack through to reveal a stainless steel electric kettle.

“All this packaging,” she mumbled, rubbing the little foam niblets from the kettle’s surface. “That’s an ice shelf crumbling right there.”

She pulled herself off the floor and placed the kettle on the granite counter, then opened a cabinet to reveal three packed shelves full of boxes of organic herbal teas. She plugged in the kettle and filled it from a bottle of spring water. It set to work with a polite hiss.

“New headshots,” Scarlett said, holding up the bundle of envelopes. Mrs. Amberson reached for them and started ripping them open, tossing the envelopes to the floor and extracting the glossy headshot photos and résumés. Once you’d seen a dozen headshots, you felt like there was too much sameness in the world. Pretty people smiling big smiles, sometimes leaning forward casually, sometimes leaning against something. Or you’d just get a big close-up of their beautiful eyes and perfect skin and teeth. Actors. So many actors.

“Tea?” Mrs. Amberson asked, not looking up from the parade of faces.

“Is there coffee?”