Claire called back an hour later.

“Hello,” Claire said with a sigh, “How are you?”

Sylvia heard distress in her voice. “Okayish,” she replied, “but you don’t sound so good.”

“Sylvia, what the fuck am I gonna do with Ian? I got a call from him. He and Fire had a big fight and he … I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” Sylvia asked, piqued by the mention of Fire’s name.

“Sylvia, I need to talk to you. My bike is in the shop and Ian may call back. Can you come over?”

Fire. The name sent Sylvia’s mind tumbling. Had she not met him, she wondered, would all of this have happened with Lewis? As the cab skimmed over the Brooklyn Bridge, the windshield wipers resembling desperate hands trying to wipe away tears, she reflected on their meeting and couldn’t help but smile. She began to think of what it was going to be like when they saw each other again. She didn’t know if he knew she was coming, and she hadn’t asked Jane, because she’d been procrastinating about facing the possibility of … well … she wasn’t sure … a number of things … danger? disappointment?

She closed her eyes to get away from the world. When she opened them, the world was still there, appearing more eldritch than before, the reflection of nearby emergency lights oozing through the frosty, rain-streaked glass like something from the imagination of Stephen King.

Claire lived in a big apartment in a half-shabby building on a partially gentrified block in the East Village. The lights were off and the room was lit with shimmering candles.

“I’m gonna roll a J,” Claire said as Sylvia sat on an Ashanti footstool. “Want some?”

Sylvia thought for a second, then accepted. She hadn’t smoked a spliff in years.

“Take off your coat and gloves,” Claire said.

“I’m still cold.”

“Suit yourself.”

Claire sat cross-legged on a Turkish cushion and rolled the herb in tobacco leaves, talking as she worked.

“Ian and Fire got in this big fight in Jamaica … I mean a fistfight, not just words … and now they’re not talking. I asked Ian what they fought about, and he said ask you. According to him you know. So I’m asking you. He couldn’t tell me anything intelligent. I guess he was high.”

“I don’t know what Ian is talking about,” Sylvia replied.

Claire shrugged her shoulders and gave her the spliff. She took a long drag and blew the smoke through the corner of her mouth and handed it back to Claire, who savored it with a murmur.

“You want some music?” Claire asked.

“Sure.”

Claire put on some Black Uhuru and came back to her seat.

“My life is in shit,” Claire said emptily, staring through Sylvia and beyond. “I feel so betrayed. Do you know that Ian has sold pieces to Lewis behind my back?”

“No,” Sylvia replied quietly.

“Ian told me he had to get it off his chest … he couldn’t hold it anymore. I had to drop him, Sylvia. I had to drop Ian. I’ve suffered too much with him for him to do this to me. Pardon me, but nothing Lewis does surprises me.”