Outside the penthouse windows the November Saturday was grey and purposeful and entirely indifferent.
"Dax," I said.
"Yes."
"I want to call my mother."
The way he said yes this time was different from the early weeks' yes — the professional assent of one party to a contract granting the other appropriate latitude. This was the other one. The quiet, particular quality of someone who understands what the call is for and is glad it's happening. Who has become, across four months and everything those months contained, the person the true things are said to.
"You should," he said.
I picked up my phone.
Marisol answered on the first ring, warm and slightly breathless, the way she always answered when she'd been sitting near it.
"Remi," she said.
"Hi." I looked at Dax across the island.
