So this was a bad day, but not the worst day—she was consoling herself with that thought—when Tracy tapped her shoulder and said there was a call for her on the pay phone.

Bad news in itself. No one was supposed to take calls on the pay phone. She could think of only one person who would call her here.

“Thanks,” she said, and delivered an order to Alberto, then checked to see if George was hanging around before she picked up the receiver.

It was Roch.

Her intuition had been correct:

Avery bad day.

He said, “You’re still working at that pit?”

“Listen,” Amelie said, “this is not a good time for me.”

“I haven’t called you for months.”

“You shouldn’t call me at work.”

“Then come by my place—when you get off tonight.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

Amelie realized that her hand was cramping around the receiver, that both hands were sweaty, that her voice sounded high and throttled in her own ears.

Roch said, “Don’t be so shitty to your brother,” and she recognized the tone of offhanded belligerence that was always a kind of warning signal, a red flag. She heard herself become placating:

“It’s just—it’s like I said—a bad time. I can’t talk now. Call me at home, Roch, okay?”

“You’ll be home tonight?”

“Well—” She didn’t like the way he pounced on that. “I’m not sure—”

“What, you have plans?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m living with someone.”

“What? You’re doingwhat?” The outrage and the hurt in his voice made her feel a hot rush of guilt. Crazy, of course. Why should she consult him? But she hadn’t. And he was family.