She met Otto at a café on the west side at eight in the morning.
Not their usual café — Sable's was east side, and this was an Otto conversation, which meant neutral territory and somewhere with good food. He arrived first, which he always did for the conversations that mattered. He had things. Two pastries, two coffees, the specific preparation of someone who had understood the meeting was important and had responded by ensuring it was well-provisioned.
He looked tired.
Not the crisis kind. The kind that arrived when you'd been turning something over in your mind for several nights in a row and had finally decided the turning wasn't going to resolve itself without help.
She sat across from him.
He pushed a coffee toward her.
She waited.
He looked at the table. At his hands. At the
