He was one of those skinny boys with shoulder-length hippie hair and the soft, scraggly facial hair of an adolescent. He had a long, pale face, and pale arms that stuck out shapelessly from his yellow T-shirt. It was odd how many of the people who worked on the technical side of the crew at the station were some variation on this physical type, proof, perhaps, that genetics had determined his career choice. He picked up a spoon and started to drum at the back of his hand with it.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“I guess so,” he said, unable to meet her eye.

“The air conditioner in my room was broken, so I spent the night huddled under a stack of blankets. Frankly, I was so exhausted, I probably would have fallen asleep if it had been snowing in there.” He nodded, apparently as confused as she was as to why she was telling him this. She cut off another forkful of pancakes and put them into her mouth. “There’s been too much going on lately—at work, at home.”

He was beginning to look a little nervous, a sure sign that she was talking too much. “How’s the pancakes?” he asked.

“Buttery. You should have some. You should have some of mine, in fact. You need them more than I do.”

He ordered a bowl of corn flakes, a piece of pie, and a large Diet Pepsi. Her immediate impulse was to scold him for his diet, but hers wasn’t much better this morning. “You’re ready for the taping today?”

“I guess so.” He hooked his stringy hair behind his ears. “I mean everything’s more or less ready.”

When his food arrived, she sat back and watched him shovel in the cereal and wash it down with soda. This was one way to suppress her own rampaging appetite.

“Have you enjoyed working on this project?” she asked.

“I’m getting credit,” he said. “At school.”

“Credit. Basically, that’s all anyone wants in life, credit; not quite as good as appreciation, but a reasonable alternative.” She reached back among the salt and pepper shakers and the ketchup and mustard bottles and slid the ashtray across the table. She lit a cigarette, blew the smoke above his head, and asked him if he minded her smoking, embarrassed by the realization that she was probably trying to be seductive. “You must be learning a lot from Chloe.”

“I guess. Yeah, I am. She says she learned a lot from you.”

Jane was touched by this. Chloe often thanked her for her help, was generous with her appreciation, but compliments always count for more when they come through a third party.

“She likes you a lot,” he went on. “She felt terrible about that dinner show getting canceled.”