“Brenda’s bringing pastries up.

She’s been beside herself about all of this.”

That was the first I had heard of it, and I had been inside that building since four o’clock.

Elena’s thermos of soup was still zipped shut in my duffel, and I hadn’t opened it in two days.

The pastry box was pink cardboard with a string handle, and Brenda carried it into the anteroom the way you carry something to a wake.

“How is she?” she said.