"That's what she said."
"I have an accent."
"Yes, ma'am."
"So does half of the Bronx," she said. "So does the man who makes your coffee."
"I know that." He said it quickly, almost angrily, and she understood that the anger was not at her, or not only. "I know that. I'm telling you what I've got. I've got the late train and a Sunday and somebody on foot heading toward the houses that got hit, carrying a box, and a woman who says she lives at an address where I happen to know an eighty-two-year-old man lives alone, and who says that box has a watch in it. So I'd like to see what's in the box."
"No," Solange said.
He looked at her.
"It is not mine," she said. "It is his. It is wrapped. The man at the shop wrapped it. I am not going to open it on the side of the road in the rain."
"It's not raining."