There was a small black granite kitchen at the back of the loft. She knew she had to eat, so eventually she wound up there, and heated up a can of soup. Most of the time, she was too lazy to make much of a meal. She lived on soups and salads and eggs. On the rare occasions when she wanted a real meal, she went to some simple restaurant alone and ate quickly, to get it over with. She had never been much of a cook, and made no pretense of it. It had always seemed like a waste of time to her, there were so many other things that interested her more-previously, her family, and now, her work. In the past three years, her work had become her life. She put her whole soul into it and it showed.

Hope was eating her soup, watching the snow fall outside, when her cell phone rang, and she set the soup down, and dug the phone out of her camera bag. She wasn’t expecting any calls, and smiled when she heard the familiar voice of her agent, Mark Webber. She hadn’t heard from him in a while.

“Okay, so where are you now? And what time zone are you in? Am I waking you up?” She laughed in response, and sat back against the couch with a smile. He had represented her for the last ten years, when she went back to work. He usually tried to push her to do commercial jobs, but he also had a deep respect for her more serious artistic endeavors. He always said that one day she would be one of the most important American photographers of her generation, and in many ways she already was, and was deeply respected by both curators and her peers.

“I’m in New York,” she said, smiling. “And you’re not waking me up.”

“I’m disappointed. I figured you were in Nepal, or Vietnam, or someplace scary and disgusting. I’m surprised you’re here.” He knew how much she hated holidays, and all the reasons why. She had good reason. But she was a remarkable woman-a survivor-and a dear friend. He liked and admired her enormously.