Gloria smiled to herself. “I haven’t seen that car in some time,” she said. She reached for the remote and increased the volume. “They’ve evacuated six hundred people from Vernonia.”

Charlene Wood from KGW was reporting from Tillamook. A dead cow floated past behind her. The scroll at the bottom of the screen promised more snowmelt, more rain, more flooding. U.S. 26, I-84, and U.S. 30 had all been closed due to mudslides. Amtrak was shut down.

Barry clapped his hands on his knees and sat forward. “I think we’re done here,” he said.

“Can I leave my card?” Susan asked. Gloria’s gaze remained fixed on the television screen. Susan rifled through her purse, emptying items onto the coffee table—an Altoid tin, a box of tampons, an empty water bottle, used Kleenex, a pack of yellow American Spirits, a glittery pink Hello Kitty pen. She was looking for something to write on. She didn’t want to leave a Herald card. But she didn’t want to write her number down on the back of a Burgerville receipt, either. She settled on one of Archie’s business cards. She’d grabbed a handful at some point, and kept them in her wallet, jammed behind the gym membership card she never used. You never knew when that kind of thing would come in handy. She was sure she could use one to get out of a traffic stop one day. She crossed out Archie’s name and rank and the Portland city seal, and wrote her name and cell phone number on the back with the Hello Kitty pen. Then she added the word McBee, followed by a question mark.

“Call me if you remember anything,” she said to Gloria. She set the card on the coffee table. Next to the remote, so Gloria would be sure to see it.

Gloria glanced back at her and smiled. “Of course, dear,” she said.

Barry was already standing up, scrolling through text messages like he had something important to do.

Susan held the mouth of her purse open next to the table, and swept all the stuff she’d taken out of her purse back inside it. The tampon box top opened as she did, and all the tampons slid out loose into her purse. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded. But Barry was acting all anxious to go, and it made Susan want to take her time. There was a study about that once. When people in parking lots saw that a car was waiting for their spot, they always took longer to pull out of it. It was a statistical fact.

She felt around the bottom of her bag and scooped them back up, the white paper wrappers already soiled with detritus from the depths of her bag—an old Jolly Rancher, lint, tobacco, a fingernail clipping.

Susan flicked the fingernail clipping back into her purse.

Barry looked a little terrified.