Please.”

“The Oak Street diner. One o’clock.”

“Come by yourself,” she said, and hung up.

Rosa glanced at the phone, then at me.

“Want me to push the two o’clock tune-up?”

“Push it to four.”

She took the wedding invitation off my desk, the gold lettering and the little ribbon, and taped it to the corner of the whiteboard where she keeps the jobs nobody has called back on.

“October eighteenth,” she said.