I sit up, sweaty, disoriented. I’m in a hotel. Moose sleeps beside the bed. Thomas is next to me. I finally heard both words: Come out. But who said them? All I know for certain is that I recognized the gray door from childhood nightmares, but this time . . . NO. I tear myself free from the bad dream’s sticky web, cram down irrational fears, and rest a hand on Moose’s rib cage, match the rhythm of our breaths. The dream’s images turn to sepia then scatter like leaves in the wind.

Rolling onto my side, I watch Thomas sleep. I’ve got the upper hand and can go to his editor, kill my section in his exposé. He’s way too compromised at this point to be objective or believed. So why haven’t I done it already? Ended this? He’s my enemy, adversary, one-time lover . . . and friend? Is that what’s stopping me? The idea that we might continue on in any capacity, after all of this, was never possible, even if he’d believed. Right?

If you let people get too close, you’d have to answer the hard questions, and they’d really know you . . .

I’ll miss Thomas. Having someone who demanded more, challenged me, and made me want to be better, do better. So what’s next? I’m safe right now. When Thomas wakes, I’ll send him away and then call his editor. Over the next few days I’ll prep for my show. Then I’ll return to LA, get ready for the next stage of my career.

Quietly, I get up and dig the plastic pieces from the pocket of the jeans that hang over the back of a chair. The figures are hooked together, the woman’s hand caught in the little girl’s braid. This was my life. I pad to the trash can, hold the pieces over it, and tip my palm to let them slide away. But at the last second I close my fist.

“Hey,” Thomas calls. “You okay?”

I turn and place the figures on top of the duvet. Frustration strangles my voice. “I need to know.”

His eyes are somber. “Let me help you?”

“All Faith remembered about me was that I didn’t speak when I arrived. I’ve reached a dead end.”

Thomas shakes his head. “There’s no such thing. We can figure it out together.”

A better person would say no. “Okay.” Moose stretches, brings me his leash. “Order breakfast?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“You choose.”

I shrug on my dad’s old down coat, clip the leash to Moose’s collar, more to make the people we meet on the street feel safe than for him. In the lobby I stop by the concierge’s desk. She’s early forties, clad in a silk blouse and dark blue pants, name tag: elliot.

“Can I help you?” Elliot asks.

“Yes, I’d like to send a package. Do you have an envelope?”

“Let me check.” She pulls open a drawer, withdraws a four-by-six-inch manila envelope. “Would this work? If not, I can send out for a different size, bring it to your room?”