They also did not know that twice she had kissed Duke and twice he had been repulsed. Polite but repulsed.

Waves of embarrassment and self-loathing lapped against her. And a solid dose of anger toward Duke, for tripping her up. She stood and paced around the small living space, trying to loosen the anxiety gripping her chest. I do not have time for this nonsense. She rubbed her temples. Don’t think about it. My fifteen minutes are already up. I’m never going to see Duke again. Put your head down and get to work, Angel. But let’s reconsider that glass of wine.

She took a water goblet out of the dishwasher and emptied the last of a bottle of pinot into it. Back at her computer, she took a long drink and thought, Nothing but light reading from now on. Closing out all but one tab, she went to the Centers for Disease Control website.

Ten minutes later she was pale-faced and shaking, thoughts of Duke shoved aside for the night. When she’d chosen the effects of asthma on children as her thesis, Angel thought she’d be killing two birds with one stone: getting a grade while also learning more about Jose’s condition. But the topic choice didn’t just kill birds—it almost killed her, via a massive spike in blood pressure. Because, hey, guess what, according to the CDC, black children are twice as likely as white kids to have asthma, but ten times more likely to die from asthma complications. Ten. Times. She’d been giving Jose albuterol, to which, apparently, black and Puerto Rican kids had the highest rate of bad responses—including dying. Advair was even worse, with an eightfold risk of death. But there were no alternatives.

Jose was both Puerto Rican and African American. The kid couldn’t catch a break.

She went to bed hours later, her eyes red and aching from staring at a computer screen. And from drinking. But, really, from crying.

Duke shuddered awake when his phone rang, yanking him from a deep, troubled sleep. Skip calling back, deciding to make a clean break.

He groped for the phone and tried to read the sleep-blurred screen. It was Roland.

“Man, why are you calling this early?”

“Hi, this is Kinley,” said a woman with a posh accent. “And it’s eight o’clock in the morning. Get up, for God’s sakes.”

“Oh, Kinley, hi. I was expecting your old man.”

“I stole his phone,” she said. “So, who’s the girl, Duke? Roland says she’s a stripper?”