“That’s good.

That’s really good.” He was already looking past her at the doors, at the families going in with their badges on lanyards.

She stood up.

The pastry bag stayed where he had put it, and the leaf was still on his shoe.

“The bag’s yours,” he said.

“I know.” She took it.

She walked across the courtyard eating the almond pastry out of the bag, because she had not eaten since the diner, and it was still warm in the middle.

The lobby doors let out a wall of heat and the sharp smell of floor wax.