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drink. Edison bolted his sandwich in three bites and lapped noisily at the water.
    Joe glanced at the window that ran along one side of the room. The window looked onto the outside edge of Grand Central Terminal. He never saw the building from the outside.
    Sunlight poured through the window onto the carpet. He couldn’t go near the light. The curtain was so close, but he’d have to cross the light to get to it. That wasn’t possible, so he’d have to sit on the floor on the other side of the bed with his laptop in his lap. Not ideal.
    Edison trotted across the room, took the curtain gently in his mouth, and pulled it closed. The room was safe again. The dog’s ability to read Joe’s moods and respond was uncanny, and Joe loved him for it. He took another treat out of his pocket and gave it to him.
    Joe clicked on the desk lamp and took his phone out of his pocket. He settled down to wait. He had made it with a few minutes to spare. He chewed his sandwich, not tasting it, and washed it down with a swig of cold Coke. He was too upset to stomach the fries.
    The clock at the corner of his computer screen read one (cyan). He tapped his fingers against the desktop. He wanted the call to come in, and he didn’t want it to.
    His phone rang. Vivian Torres was calling him on FaceTime. Characteristically prompt.
    Sweat sprang up on Joe’s palms, and he wiped his hands on his pants before accepting the call.
    Vivian looked tanner than usual. She’d been soaking up the summer sun, like nature intended. His father would have been proud of her. She’d also cut her black hair shorter, into a bob. It suited her, but just about everything suited her. Even though she didn’t seem to know it, she was a beautiful woman.
    “Torres here. I’m at the entrance to the cemetery,” she said.
    Hydraulic brakes sighed behind her, probably from the bus she’d arrived on. She tilted her phone to show a wrought-iron gate with New York Marble Cemetery written across the top.
    Joe’s mouth went dry, and he croaked, “Thanks.”
    The funeral was about to begin, and he wasn’t there. He was in some hotel room, alone with his dog.
    “I can’t see anyone from out here,” she said. “I’m going to walk into the cemetery and see what’s going on.”
    Joe nodded, then remembered she wasn’t looking at him. “OK.”
    He took a long sip of Coke and cleared his throat.
    She panned her phone from side to side to show brick walls and a faraway strip of bright green grass. “I don’t know how they’ll feel about me filming once I get in the cemetery, so I’m going to put you in my front pocket to be discreet.”
    The view dropped a foot, dipped behind white fabric, then settled.
    “I feel short,” Joe said.
    “If you think I’m taping this thing to the side of my head, you’ve got another think coming.”
    Joe smiled, grateful he could. “I’ll go on mute now.”
    He didn’t want any hotel noises beaming out into the cemetery during the service.
    “Gotcha, boss.” The phone wiggled as if she had nodded. She started forward, and the green grass neared. That must be the cemetery itself.
    A guy wearing a black suit and a professional mourner’s face hurried up to her. “Are you here for the Smith funeral?”
    Smith funeral? His father’s last name was Tesla.
    “I’m here for Mr. George Tesla. Am I in the right place?” Vivian asked.
    “Of course. Mr. Tesla is descended from the Smiths, so he will be buried in their crypt. It dates back to 1836.” He gestured to a white plaque resting on grass in front of a stone block wall. “So few families have kept up the tradition. It’s an honor to be able to lay someone to rest here today.”
    As Vivian moved closer, Joe saw the name SMITH engraved on the marble plaque. But his father wasn’t a SMITH. He was descended from Nikola Tesla. The Teslas had lived in Croatia, not New York. Nikola Tesla himself hadn’t immigrated to the United States until 1884 (cyan, purple, purple, green).