I spread the yellowed 1984 map out over my steering wheel.

At ten the next morning Lauren put two heavy brown paper grocery bags on my living room coffee table and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.

“I got the good rye bread,” she said, her voice trembling.

“And the smoked turkey you like from the deli.”

She kept her beige coat on.

She stood by the arm of the couch, twisting one of her silver hoop earrings with two fingers.

“What are you doing here, Lauren?”