"He's scared. He's mad at me. He's eating pretzels. He answered every question that woman asked him like he was testifying in front of Congress. He's okay."
"He's mad at you because you called."
"Yes."
"I told him not to."
"I know."
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were wet, and she did not wipe them, and she looked straight at him.
"I know you remember me," she said.
"I remember you."
"I knew it was you in the alley that night. Not then. After. A couple of years after, when I'd been clean a while, and I walked down Lake Street one day and I saw you with the motorcycle. And I knew it was you, and I remembered, I remembered all of it. The light and the snow and you breathing in my mouth and then me saying—" Her face crumpled for a second and she got it back. "Saying what I said. I went home and I was sick in the toilet. I looked it up at the library. The newspaper. I saw what they wrote about you."
Lazaro said nothing. He found he did not know what he was going to say until he heard what she said next, and so he waited.