"Wait," Renee said. "Please. Please wait."
The woman stopped with one boot up on the running board. She did not turn around.
"You're Dana," Renee said.
For a long moment there was only the rain drumming on the hoods of the cars all around them, and far away, faint through the propped door of the gym, the superintendent's voice saying something about the future.
"And you're Renee," said Dana Kessler. "From the flower shop." She turned around. Her face was wet, and not all of it, Renee thought, was rain. "Go back inside. You'll miss her speech."
"So will you."
"I can hear it from here. I can hear it fine from here. That's why I parked by the door." Dana's voice was low and rough, a smoker's voice, or a voice that had spent years talking over the noise of conveyor belts. "I promised I wouldn't come in. I'm keeping it."
"Get in the truck," Renee said. "Please. I'm drowning. Just for a minute. I won't keep you. Please."
Dana looked at her, at her ruined shoes and her soaked blazer and her hair plastered to her forehead, and something that was almost a laugh went across her face and didn't stay. Then she reached across and unlocked the passenger door.
* * *
The cab of the Tacoma smelled of coffee and fish and the pine air freshener hanging from the mirror, which had long ago lost the battle. The heater was off. The radio was on low, tuned to KMUN, the community station out of Astoria, and through a fizz of static the superintendent was still talking about resilience. On the dashboard, wedged against the windshield, were two envelopes in Nora's handwriting. Under them was a manila folder, swollen with damp, its edge furred with clippings.