“You won’t do nothing either side of that lunch but you’ll sit here just the same.”

Peter nodded.

“And then you’ll come back again tomorrow and do it all over again.”

“Yes, but if you do want me to do more…”

“It won’t be more than that.”

“But—”

“I said it won’t be more.”

Peter looked away. He wanted to point out that the offer to stitch the lobby carpets back together was still there just in case Marge had thought he was only trying to impress her for his interview. But he thought better of it.

“Thank you for taking me on.”

“Sure.”

“It’s a wonderful oppor—”

“Kid, take a break, will ya?”

“But I’ve only just started. Oh, you mean from talking. Yes, but if I have any questions I’ll know where to find you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Peter offered a smile. But the induction was over. The curtain swished back into place and Marge’s footsteps schlepped back across the lobby. Peter stared at the red curtain for a moment. She probably just needed a nice invite for dinner. Most people were nicer when they were made to feel wanted. But he needed to get on so he told himself he would work on her later.

Peter folded his parka and sweater neatly under the chair and started to change into his work T-shirt when he stopped.

He swept the curtain aside. “Do you think I’m stupid for being excited?”

Marge stopped just short of her office. Her hand fell away from the door handle and the weight of her entire body seemed to exhale every last bit of patience she had left in her.

“No,” she said without turning round. “Now go back inside.”

“Why do you think my dad was glad for the lake?”

“It isn’t for me to say.”

“But—”

“I ain’t never met him.”

“No,” said Peter. “But in your opinion.”

Marge stood with her back to Peter a moment and her thick shoulders heaved heavily beneath the strain of her shirt like the question had more weight to it than was necessary.

“I can’t speak for your father,” she said. “But maybe, when death is coming for you, you live.”

“But fighting the Dead was never living, it was survival.”

Marge’s hand paused over the door handle. “Survival don’t just look like a bloodied knife in your hand.”

“Why, what else does it look like?”

But Marge didn’t answer that. She made her way back inside her office as if to draw a close to the conversation and quietly shut the door behind her.