He set the recorder between two water glasses on the walnut table.

The strip mall office smelled of lemon oil and radiator steam.

Arthur polished his wire frames with a blue cloth napkin from his pocket, his eyes milky in the gray morning light.

“Nine forty-five,” Arthur said.

I sat across from him in my navy wool suit, smoothing the stiff skirt over my knees.

“You look sharp, Megan,” he said.

“I needed clothes that feel like armor,” I said.

“Armor,” Arthur repeated, nodding once.