“I don’t have any clean clothes,” I said, and stopped myself short. I sounded like a brat, but I couldn’t stand the idea of getting clean and then putting on the same greasy things. I’d rather stay dirty.

“I’ll give you something while these wash,” he said, as if it were obvious.

We had an old washer and dryer set in the basement, and I hated going down there. I’d wear jeans twenty times before I washed them.

The hall was marble floored. To the left was a spacious office with a heavy dark desk and walls lined with bookshelves. Along the ceiling was dim, recessed lighting. In the bedroom, just the edge of a big white bed was visible.

I started laughing, from nerves, from embarrassment. “Who are you?” I said, and it came out snarkier than I’d meant.

Bear patted the dog’s side. “Go lie down, Buddy,” he said, and pointed toward a plush Oriental rug in front of the fireplace.

“I’m going to order some food,” Bear said.

He left me a pair of pajamas, tags still on, from Nordstrom, and a soft T-shirt that said Utica Club. I threw my work clothes, which I would rather have thrown out, into a glass-and-black washing machine, and in the kitchen, Bear had an open box of pizza and he handed me a bottle of beer.

I took a long drink. It was amber, a little bitter. “Holy shit,” I said on the other side of the swallow. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Bear said. I bit my tongue, waiting.

“So,” I said, leaving the bottle on the counter. “When can I start?” I said.

“Whenever you want,” Bear said. “Right now.”

I gave a nervous laugh that was just staccato syllables. “Tonight?” I said.

Bear cocked his head to the side. “What do you need?” he asked.

I felt the words jumble behind my lips, my tongue thick and clumsy. “To work,” I said.

“You can work as much as you want,” Bear said. He leaned against the refrigerator behind him, his eyes a little sleepy from the beer. The light was dimmed just enough to be soft and gold, like it was sunset inside.

I chewed my lip, and he pushed the pizza box toward me. The pizza smelled delicious. It was not a treat my mother afforded us often. I watched as Bear took his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans and counted out five twenties onto the counter.

“Will this help you for now?” he said.

I swallowed. “I haven’t done anything yet,” I said.

He took out two more twenties. “I trust you,” he said.

The money just lay on the counter between us, molded to the fold of his wallet. He pushed it closer.

“I trust you,” he said again, and smiled this time.

I thought I was going to be an indentured servant forever. But he threw my clothes into the dryer, where you could watch them tumble behind a sleek glass door. With the beer empty and another one open and set right before me, I started to feel bold.