She didn’t approach, didn’t wave from where she was standing.

A mild fall evening in their garden, after Leda had gone to sleep. Arman had been more subdued than usual, and when she’d asked if he was all right, he’d reported that an agent who’d initially pursued him and with whom he’d met several times had officially declined to represent him after coming right out and explaining that, though he admired Arman’s talent and range, his look was limiting. When Arman had pressed the agent to elaborate, because Arman was no rube and had simply wanted the agent to feel uncomfortable, he’d been told that there were only so many terrorist and cabdriver roles and the agency already represented an actor of that type. Arman was a third-generation Armenian American from a leafy Detroit suburb. People have no imagination; on this they all agreed. People don’t see.

He was every man, now, alone inside his parked car in the middle of the night, vaguely illuminated by a phone. When he finally did get out of the car, it was with one movement and he was headed in her direction. She hurried away—why?—sinking into the hammock as quietly as she could. It was darker under the trees, and the hammock’s cotton was slightly damp. She watched him sit down at the outdoor table; he leaned forward and rested his head on his arms.

She rose from the hammock and realized that no matter how she did it—at this point, in this spot and hour—she was going to alarm him. She figured calling out from farther away would be less frightening. “Hi, Arman.”

“Fuck—” He whipped his head around. “What the—?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” She started to laugh.

“Wait”—he was whispering now—“Sarah?”

He started laughing, too, as he rose from the table to give her a hug. He smelled like clean sheets and something stronger, like the funk of the soybean farm where she’d worked during the summer after her freshman year in college. “What the—?” He held her out in front of him in a fatherly way that felt silly and surprisingly sweet.

“What?” He was still holding on. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I’m not, I’m not. You did know we were coming, right?”

“Of course I did.” He let go of her arms. “I just didn’t expect to find you awake, outside, at five a.m.”

Now he squinted slightly. He leaned in to touch her face and she flinched.

“What happened?”

“Long story.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She smiled. Such a tender instinct, to touch her face—tender and startling.

“Did the baby wake you?”

She shook her head. “I bet? What does that mean, Arman?”

“Your face is banged up. That’s usually complicated, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You okay?”

She nodded.