Mr. Carter called that evening. June put him on speaker and stayed in the room, arms folded, not hostile, simply present, a woman who had learned that institutions sound kinder on the phone than they behave in hallways.
"The panel was unanimous," he said. "Not unanimous that you are finished. Unanimous that you should be in the building. Dr. Shah liked the way you fixed the cadence without making a face. Her words, more or less. I have a line on a used harp from a family whose daughter switched to voice. It is not a gift with a bow. It is a loan through the school, with an insurance form your aunt would need to sign, and a responsibility I will not downplay. If it is too much, you can practice at the center and we will make the hours real, not theoretical. I wanted you to have the choice."
June asked sharp questions about liability, about what happened if a string broke, about whether a child could be blamed for a crack that already existed. Mr. Carter answered all of them without impatience. At the end June said, "Send the papers. I will read them like they owe me money. If they are honest, we'll try."
"Thank you," he said. And then, to Nia, "You asked me a question in the lobby. The answer is still waiting. It can wait until you have had a month of Saturdays. I don't want my history to be the first song you learn in that building."
"Okay," Nia said. "Mr. Carter? Thank you for the bench."
"The bench is the job," he said. "You did the part that wasn't the job."
The loan harp arrived on a Saturday in a padded cover that made it look like a tall, shy guest. Two movers and Mr. Carter angled it up the walk-up stairs while a neighbor watched with open suspicion and then, seeing Nia's face, held the second-floor door without being asked. In the living room the harp occupied the corner where the rented one had stood, and also more than that corner, because this harp was larger and the apartment had not grown. The dust outline Nia still sometimes saw was covered at last by real wood and real strings.
June circled it like it might bite. "If you knock it over with a backpack, we will both ascend directly to heaven from shock," she said. "Backpacks live in the bedroom. Shoes live by the door. This thing lives like a queen who pays no rent. Agreed?"
"Agreed."