“Because I didn’t think you could take it. I still don’t think you can take it, but you know what? Neither can I. Because no matter what I do in the name of protecting you, it’s always useless. So I guess I’m saying, screw it.” He ran his hand over his face. “I heard from her.”

“When.”

“Two months ago. She said she was going to Mexico City with some people from the organization. She asked me not to tell you. She said she was building an internal civilization and having it manifest in the external world.”

“You heard from her.”

“Yes.”

Sarah sliced a lime on the cutting board. She squeezed it over the diced avocado. Then she turned off the oven and the stove; she turned off the fan.

“Sarah—”

She grabbed her sweater from where she’d tossed it on the banister and walked back out into the night.

NOTHING ABOUT THE BAR, which was just a bar (No food, old man, sorry), was distinctive: Waylon Jennings on the stereo, twinkly lights, a tattered American flag. The bartender was presumably the old man’s son; she’d seen him stacking the glassware, waving his father’s smoke away. Sarah realized why she’d continued to watch him go about such a mundane task: he was attractive. She almost laughed out loud. The man’s appeal hadn’t struck her at first, but it seemed pretty obvious now.

She ordered a Manhattan, her voice sounding shrill and shaky.

He rubbed his eyes and squinted. “What was that? Can you speak up?” He didn’t have a trace of an accent.

She repeated herself.

He nodded. “Got it. Sorry.”

“No”—Sarah shrugged—“I’m a low talker.”

“I’m just really beat.” He poured bourbon into a shaker.

“Me too.”

“Is that right? Rough day? You got a baby at home?”

“No,” she said, hard.

“I don’t know why I asked that. That’s none of my business. This neighborhood just seems colonized by babies and their attractive parents.”

“I’m a little old for that.”

“Well, now you’re just fishing.” He looked at Sarah and she didn’t look away. She willed herself not to flush at the base of her neck, where she could feel the blotches blooming. She was not half-naked; she was not acting impulsively. She was a grown woman sitting at a bar, making conversation.

“So, last night I cut off this guy when I realize how drunk he is. He gets belligerent. I tell him to go home, and he immediately passes out. I spend the rest of the night getting him to a hospital and answering questions.”

“Sounds rough. But … he’s okay?”