Page 148 of The Dangerous Dance

We look at the light coming through the windows.

"My mother," I say.

"Good call?"

"Good call," I say.

He nods.

We sit.

"The Italian safehouse," I say. "When."

"Tomorrow," he says. "Gianna's arranging it today." He pauses. "And the Vore strategy meeting is Thursday. Marco wants you in the room."

"I know," I say. "I've been building the presentation since Sunday."

He looks at me. "You've been building the presentation since Sunday."

"In my head," I say. "I'll put it on paper tomorrow."

He is quiet for a moment. "You were in Viktor's compound two days ago."

"I know where I was," I say.

"And you're already building the presentation."

"The granularity fades," I say. "You told me to get it documented. I'm documenting."

He looks at me with the expression that is the fully realized version of everything I've been reading in fragments since November.

"What," I say.

"Nothing," he says.

"You're making a face."

"You told me I don't make faces," he says.

"You don't," I say. "Usually. Right now you're making one."

He looks at the window. "I'm thinking that you came in with a cover story and a mission two months ago," he says. "And that the cover story was for a city that didn't care you'd arrived and the mission was to destabilize something." He pauses. "And now you're sitting in my house making plans to present Vore intelligence to the Italian alliance and calling your mother."

I look at him.

"That's all," he says. "I'm just thinking about the distance."

I look at the window. At the afternoon light. At the city that didn't care I arrived and which I am beginning, in specific and particular ways, to be a part of.

"It's not that far," I say. "From there to here."

"No," he says. "I don't think it is."

We sit in the east-facing room.

The light does what afternoon light does.

Outside the fig tree is in the garden, bare and slightly reproachful.