“It’s Tuesdays.”

“It’s Tuesdays.”

He put his phone on the table and turned it toward me, and it was a photograph of a sixteen-year-old girl in a marching band uniform, squinting, mid-laugh.

“Sydney,” he said. “She asks about you. She’s got some idea you’re a lawyer who fights for old people, which is not technically accurate but I haven’t corrected it.”

“Why does she ask about me?”

Marcus put the phone away.