At eight-forty-five on the morning of Christmas Eve, Gina Castellano was standing outside the employee entrance of Halloran Brothers on Wabash Avenue in the snow.
She had not slept. She had lain awake until four thinking about what her mother had said, and about Rosalie's solemn face, and about Graham crouched on the ice next to a crying boy named Danny, and at four she had gotten up and put on her face — the arched brows, the soft brown wings, the lashes, the rosy blush, the mauve-pink gloss, all of it, because if she was going to lose she was going to lose looking good — and she had taken the first Halsted bus downtown in the dark. She did not have a plan. She had one last desperate idea, and the idea was named Dot.
The door opened. Dot came out in her parka with her unlit cigarette. She looked at Gina for a long moment over the tops of her reading glasses.
"Well," she said. "If it isn't the fur coat."
"Please," said Gina. "I know you're sold out. I know there's no shipment. But I have to ask. Is there any chance — any chance at all — of a canceled layaway, or a return, or a damaged box, or anything? It's for a little girl. A real one. This time it's really real. Her name is Rosalie, she's six, she lost everything in a fire, she has bad dreams—"
Dot held up one hand. Gina stopped.
"Honey," said Dot. "Your fella bought the last one."
"I know," said Gina. Her throat closed. "I know he did."