The house smelled of butter and of the lemon oil Evelyn had used on the banister. The clock still ran fast. A bowl of late peaches sat on the counter, one of them soft enough to be tomorrow's problem. Lydia put the letter on the table and did not sit until Ruth pointed at a chair with her chin. They sat. The flour on Ruth's wrist marked the edge of the wood.
"I should start with the part we did," Lydia said. "Not with the part she did. Otherwise I'll sound like I came to deliver a prize."
Ruth nodded. "Start where it's ugly, then."
Lydia told her about the hospital waiting room, the magazine page, the three signatures, the decision not to call. She told it without decorating herself as the reluctant one, though she did not pretend she had invented the plan. She told about Mark's paper with Pruitt, which she had learned fully only an hour ago and which still felt like a stone in the day's shoe. She told about Helen's almost-contest and the sentence Helen had asked her not to improve. Ruth listened with her forearms on the table, the way she had listened to students who were about to admit they had not practiced. When Lydia finished, the kitchen was very quiet, and the clock ticked in its dishonest way, three minutes ahead of the world.