Man-hate was insinuating. Head was unstringing. She excused herself and found the restroom. She didn’t need to use the toilet; she just sat on it, the stall door locked. She had to get through this thing. She had to. She repeated it: Affect flat. She listened to the world going on outside the bathroom, the many human interactions, so many and so varied as to be almost dignifying. They carried on. They went about. They just did.

After a few minutes she felt less overloaded, more her customary pissy biggity. She got out of the stall and went to the mirror over the sink. She looked nothing like that Afghan girl. It was nothing to do with—Fuck. She realized with a start she’d left the National Geographic clipping—hell, the letter! the fucking angel shots!—all of the letters and enclosures were there in the Viper. The thing with Drew had completely distracted her. The crew would find it. She was so fucked. She’d tried to keep everything from her hutmates, and now, now—she had to tabulate her missing tasks, get organized, shut down this trilling brain romp. Oh—she needed to tell her group commander her decision about the assignment. She’d hardly given any thought to it. No, she had completely fucking forgotten about it. She started to wash her hands. Fuck if the soap in the dispenser wasn’t that bismuth-pink, color of gagging and itty bikinis.

A woman walked in, neatened in a dress and low-heeled boots. She was also wearing makeup, something Mary hadn’t seen in months. Either her eye shadow was sloppily applied or she’d been crying. When she went for the toilet paper and started blowing her nose, Mary saw she could get out without either one of them getting too embarrassed.

“Mary Goodwin?”

Mary stopped.

The woman walked away from the stall, toward the hand dryer Mary had tried to slink past.

“Are you Captain Mary Goodwin?”

“Yes.”

“Health Attaché Holly Fitzsimmons.” She offered her hand to Mary, then, looking at the toilet paper balled up in it, changed her mind.

“Head cold,” she said, worrying Mary had misread her tears. “The worst.” She bent to start washing her hands. “Listen,” she said, turning to look up at Mary, who’d reinstated inching away. “Wait,” she said. “Wait, I’m so sorry.”

“I should get going,” Mary said, weighing how bad it would be to bolt.

But now this embassy woman was sliding her palm into Mary’s, saying, “I am sorry, truly sorry, for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said, monotone.

“You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”

“Actually, I came with …” She couldn’t remember his name. Had he even told her?

“Let me get you seated properly. There’s space reserved at the front.”

“I’d rather just go in and, you know, sit down.”

“No, no, no. Come with me,” she said.