Eric shook his head. “That isn’t how it works. We have to show them that we can make a profit, that this idea is scalable, or we’ll lose their interest. Mark says he has some ideas. I’m gonna talk to him tonight.”

“Why didn’t he send any of this to me? I thought I was the administrator.”

“You work with the students, Marianne,” he said. “That’s plenty. You’ll be brought in for big decisions. Don’t worry.”

The way he said that—don’t worry—made Marianne suddenly feel very small and petty and in the way. Don’t worry! she thought. Hadn’t she given up everything—her apartment, her whole life—to come here? To live in a single room (no matter that it was roughly the same size as the apartment she gave up) and listen to people complain all day?

“I don’t know who decided I was the one who was good with people,” she said, spearing the dry fish angrily with her fork. “I don’t know whose brilliant fucking brainstorm that was.”

Eric eyed her warningly over his papers; they’d agreed on a cussing prohibition for the two-week residency.

“Brilliant freaking brainstorm.”

“You’re great with people,” he said. “Better than Tom, apparently. Didn’t you used to cry at every workshop?”

“Not in workshop,” she insisted. “After. It was cathartic. Sometimes. And crying is good for the skin.”

“Oh, look out,” Eric said. “Davonte wants something. I bet you can help him.”

Two tables over, the former R&B star was signaling for their attention. “I think he wants you,” Marianne said. “You’re his teacher.”

Eric closed his eyes. “I think you’re better with him. Please.”

“Fine,” Marianne said. She took Eric’s Coke with her and walked over to Davonte’s table, where he was sitting alone.

“Hi, Donald!” she said, pleased to remember the name he wanted to be called. “What’s up?”

“This food,” he said, gesturing at his plate: two stuffed peppers, two fish fillets, a tall mound of rice topped with salsa. He had already eaten some of it, and he resumed eating while Marianne stood next to him, as if he was proving something. “It’s too salty,” he said between bites. “And unhealthy.”

“Oh,” Marianne said. “But it’s fish! It isn’t fried.”

“For lunch … were you here for lunch?”

Marianne suggested the salad bar. But Davonte said he did not like cold food that other people had messed with, and could not be counted on, if she wanted to know the truth of it, to control himself in the face of ranch dressing. But he had a solution—his life coach, who was staying nearby, would bring him supper, and he would eat Lean Cuisine for lunch, if only Marianne could microwave it for him and have it ready on a plate.

“On a plate,” Marianne repeated.