Sylvie quips, “So you’re saying I’m a liar but I’m brilliant?”

Her smile is impish and I can’t help but laugh. “Like I said, the jury is still out. You ready?”

“I guess so.” She hands me Chris, dusts cat hair off her jeans. “She’s shedding an awful lot.”

“That’s normal.”

“This morning she drank most of Moose’s water.”

“Normal.” Is it?

Sylvie crosses to the door. “Okay, let’s go find Heidi then.”

I have to ask. “What did Lucas say when you spoke with him?”

She turns. “Well, he wasn’t at all happy that you were staying in my room.”

I joke, “Maybe he’s jealous. Are you two romantically involved?”

“Seriously? He’s twenty years older than me.”

“Have there been any since high school? I mean, you’re decent looking—”

Sylvie snorts. “Thanks.”

“Why couldn’t I find anyone?”

“There have only been a few guys, one semi-serious, but he wanted children so I broke it off.”

“You don’t want kids?”

She twists her hair into a knot. “Nope.”

“Huh. So why’d Lucas call?”

Sylvie fiddles with her earring. “To make sure I got the package he sent. I told him that I wasn’t going to read it and he gave me an ultimatum.”

“Which is?”

“Still off the record?”

“Already agreed.”

“Either I find a way to prep without you knowing or he’ll cancel the show.”

“Can he do that? Cancel your show?”

“Not without my okay.”

“You going to give it to him?” Sylvie opens the door. “Are you going to do your research?” I press.

She says over her shoulder, “The jury is still out.”

I bite my lower lip. “If you cancel the show or find a way to do prep, there’s only one conclusion I can come to.”

Moose trails Sylvie into the hall. I scoop up Chris and follow. When the elevator doors open, a couple who must be well into their eighties, both with snow-white hair, his thin enough to see slivers of spotted scalp, hers a stylish wave pinned behind her ears with rhinestone clips, glance at us. They see Moose and the man, with the aid of a wooden cane, reflexively steps in front of his wife.

When the elevator dings on the restaurant level, the two get off.

As the doors slide closed, Sylvie quietly says, “For you, this is all about the article, but for me? It’s about me.”

She’s right. This is as much an indictment of who she is, as about what she does for a living. And I can’t change that. On the way to the car we pick up sandwiches at a little café. I’m driving and still finish mine before we get on the highway. Sylvie picks at hers but doesn’t eat much. She’s thinner, too.

The day hasn’t brightened from this morning, as dreary as the mood in this car, the clouds low, suffocating. At some point Sylvie switches on the radio, clicks through bad rock stations, classical music, settles on NPR.

A news anchor says, “NPR is supported by a grant from the Charles Stewart Mott Foundation. Now we return to breaking news and our foreign correspondent Jane Arraf. Jane?”