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about the same length as the King’s unbroken one. It was far more muscled, but no one would notice under his clothes. She screwed the appendage into his shoulder socket, wormed his shirt and jacket back on, and fixed his wig. In the closet she grabbed the mop again, and an empty bucket to put under the leak. Wiped up the water. Gathered the broken arm pieces into a plastic bag and hid them in the storage room, in a box labeled Scraps.
    She didn’t want to go back into the lobby, to sit across the street from the pizzeria, to watch Tobias tote pies and wings to his car and drive away, only to return empty-handed and do it again. She didn’t want to sit alone with Elvis, listening to the ting, ting, tap of the water in the bottom of the bucket. She didn’t want too much space around her. And she didn’t want Louise to find her quite yet. So, after jerkingoff the light so hard she heard the chain bounce up against the bulb, she lay down on the cement floor and wriggled her body beneath one of the workbenches. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and when she turned her head to peer out into the room, she saw a patchwork of black and blacker, and all sorts of grays. Her nose nearly touched the bottom shelf of the workbench, and she smelled old wood. The peaks and points of the cement pricked her scalp, and she tensed her neck muscles to press her head harder into the floor.
    Footsteps. Her mother was back. Molly heard the curtain flutter open and Louise’s breath, but then the footsteps moved away. She stayed awhile longer, eyes closed, hoping to fall asleep, but she knew her mother would come looking for her again, would be nervous if Molly didn’t show up soon. She kinked her neck to look down at her wristwatch, pressed on the Indiglo light; she hadn’t been there ten minutes. Things felt so much longer in the dark.
    Molly rolled out, went back to the lobby. For the third time that day she unlocked the front entrance. The sign in the door still read Open. Tobias got into his car across the street. He looked over but didn’t wave or nod, and in that moment Molly felt as if she’d lost her chance at the normal she craved. Tobias had been her conduit to that. Now he wouldn’t want anything to do with her.
    Before pushing open the apartment door, she brushed away the balls of dust from her clothes. She didn’t want her mother asking questions, not that Louise would. So much hiding between them. She knew her mother didn’t ask because she didn’t want to know—not because she was uninterested, but because it hurt too much.
    Molly didn’t want to give answers anyway.
    She heard pans being pulled from cabinets in the kitchen. “Oh, you’re home,” she said to her mother, who slid a Pyrex baking dish onto the stovetop and opened another cupboard to get her favorite Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.
    “Thanks for taking care of the leak,” Louise said, intently flipping through the pages.
    “I didn’t do much.”
    “I’ll call Mick tomorrow.” She turned her head from Molly. Sniffled.
    “Mom, is something wrong?”
    Louise shook her head and tore a paper towel off the roll hanging on the wall, crumpling it against her eyes, sweeping it beneath her nose. “Sorry, baby. It’s Linda Johnson’s daughter. She was killed in a car accident this morning.”
    “The one on Beamson Island, who has the baby?”
    “No. The one who moved to Hartford. I was there when Linda got the news. I didn’t want to leave, but she said she needed to be alone. Stacey has a little girl, too, but wasn’t with the father anymore. Linda doesn’t know what’s going to happen to Dakota now.” Her mother swore. “I can’t find the lasagna recipe.”
    “Here, let me,” Molly said. She flipped to the index. “Page 223.”
    “I just . . . can’t imagine losing a child,” Louise said. But Molly knew that was a lie. She could imagine it very well. “The least I can do is make a couple of meals.”
    “Want help?”
    Her mother