“Your tongue or your head?” Hanna asks. The loft is open concept, and from the couch Shawn can tell she is in the kitchen, although he still can’t focus enough to see her as more than a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifts onto his back and feels the sharp edge of something digging into his neck. He reaches behind him and extracts a TV remote from under his head.

“If it’s my head, it’s because I slept on this all night,” he says, flinging it across the couch.

“Right,” says Hanna. “Nothing to do with the distillery you drank last night.” He can hear her voice moving closer. Shawn tries to recall the last time he was at Hanna’s place. It might have been years ago.

He rolls over to face her. She is sitting on an overstuffed brown armchair, holding a paper cup like the one in front of him, licking the foam off the top of some kind of espresso drink. Her hair is pulled into a messy braid that hangs over one shoulder, and she is wearing cut-offs and a loose tank top with a picture of a beagle wearing sunglasses on it. Shawn is frequently disturbed by how much she looks like Katriina – a younger, blonder, hippie-chick Katriina – but right now he finds it comforting. It’s like being with his wife without having to actually be with his wife.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Ten,” she says. “Katriina’s been texting me. She thinks you’ve run off with the daughter of an oil tycoon and are making a new life for yourself in South America.”

With considerable effort, Shawn props himself up to a sitting position and tries for the coffee again, this time removing the lid and blowing on it before taking a sip. The coffee is rich and dark and bitter. It might be the best thing he has ever tasted. “I’m guessing you didn’t make this,” he says.

“Who has time to make their own coffee? It’s from the bakery downstairs. There are some muffins in the kitchen, too, if you want them.”

Shawn shakes his head, taking another sip of coffee. “I want a bottle of Advil and seven more hours’ sleep,” he says. “Did you tell her I’m here?”

“No. Should I?”

“I guess so.” He tries to think of where his Jeep might be. Then he remembers that he left it at Victor Street the night before, that Katriina had driven him to the hospital to see Kate. And suddenly he remembers everything. He jerks upright, and coffee sloshes onto his chest. “Shit,” he says.

“Are you okay?” asks Hanna.

Shawn stares at the coffee stain on his T-shirt. “Katriina lost the baby.”

“I know.”