Page 93 of His Wall

A knock at the door.

I opened it.

Mrs. Alvarez was in her housecoat with her glasses up in her hair and a glass dish in her hands.

"Mija."

"Mrs. Alvarez."

"You have been gone."

"Work travel."

"Mhm. Rice and beans. From dinner. My grandson — "

"Canceled."

"He is the worst grandson in the United States of America."

I took the dish.

She squinted at me. She did not let go of her end of the dish for a second. She tilted her head a quarter-inch.

"You look different."

"Long week."

"You look — " She frowned. "You look glowing, mija. You have been with someone."

"There is no one, Mrs. Alvarez."

"Mhm."

She let go of the dish. She patted my forearm.

"I am not going to ask. I am going to wait. You will tell me when you are ready."

She turned back into her apartment. The door closed.

I put the rice and beans in the fridge, next to the unfinished lasagna, my mother's soup, and the grapes I'd been ignoring for nine days.

I ate at the counter. I rinsed the bowl. I put it on the rack beside the other one.

I sat at the counter with my phone face down on the marble.

I lasted two hours.

I told myself it was the check-in. The Bureau check-in was periodic, scheduled, and professional. It was in the protocol. That's what I followed.

I picked up a bottle of wine on the way out.

He opened the door in sweatpants, a soft gray T-shirt, bare feet, and wet hair from the shower. He looked at me. He looked at the wine in my hand.

"You lasted two hours."

"It's a security check."

"You're holding a bottle of wine, Leah."