“It’s a taxi, sire.”

“Taxis are yellow. This car has no bumper, a ripped seat, and a strange fluid smeared on the windows.”

“You getting in or what?” the driver asked. He was looking at his phone, probably searching for the next fare.

Likotsi pulled the door open a bit wider. “Have a pleasant day, Jamal. I’ll text to update you of any changes to your schedule and I’ll meet you at the consulate at five.”

Thabiso grimaced and slipped into the car. Likotsi waved happily from the curb as it pulled away.

“She’s lucky she’s the best assistant in Thesolo,” he muttered as he inhaled the scent of fake pine and leather.

And because she was, he knew her advice about Naledi should be heeded. But when he’d watched Naledi walk off arm in arm with her friend, his only concern had been how many hours would pass before he saw her again. He rarely disagreed with Likotsi when she presented him with the facts, but just this once, he hoped she was mistaken.

Chapter 11

Ledi couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a relaxing day. The cheese bread and mountain of meat at the Brazilian restaurant had left her and Portia in a stupor, so they’d people watched in Central Park before checking out the museum exhibit. Portia had filled Ledi in on her latest hookups and her newest obsession—she was taking a course on social engineering. Portia generally stuck to arts-related fields, but she changed interests more often than some people changed shoes—she could afford to deep dive into whatever captured her interest. It was occasionally frustrating, but it was one of the things Ledi appreciated most about her friend. She always had something new and fascinating to discuss, and she was always genuinely excited about whatever Ledi wanted to discuss with her.

She’d forgotten how good it felt to just sit in the sun and talk without worriedly counting off how many drinks Portia was having. She’d missed that.

After getting their second wind, they’d gone to the museum—one of the many places around the city Portia had interned. Ledi had gotten to talk about the history of epidemics in Manhattan with the exhibit’s curator, and Portia had casually introduced the idea of a future event and Ledi and the curator had exchanged information so they could discuss it more formally.

Afterward, Ledi had met up with Trishna for a study date. Hours of force-feeding each other the information they needed not only to pass but to ace their exams had left Ledi feeling surer of herself. She was confident about the following week’s exams, but Dr. Kreillig was still MIA, and even a great day couldn’t negate that.

Everyone else had received instructions about travel expenses and where to meet and what to bring for their practicums. Ledi hadn’t. After hearing Trishna gush about her plans for a summer spent at a rural public health office in Maine, Ledi had finally accepted she needed to take action. Drafting an email to Dean Bell, her advisor’s superior, with Trishna’s help had sapped the last of her energy.

She knew it had to be done, but the moment she’d hit Send had brought a horrible flashback—sitting in the child welfare office scared and confused, talking to the older boy who’d sat down next to her. She couldn’t remember his face or what his voice sounded like, but she remembered his words.

“If you tell on an adult, even if they do something really bad, they always make you pay for it.”

Then his caseworker had called him into her office, brows drawn, her mouth a thin slash of red. The boy had walked toward the office slowly, like every frightening creature a child’s imagination could muster waited behind the smoked glass, and then the door had shut behind him.

Ledi had taken that advice to heart, and old habits were hard to break.

She’d thought of Jamal when her finger had hovered over the Send button on her screen, trying to find an excuse not to involve her dean.

“Doing everything yourself isn’t really sustainable, is it?”

Of course Jamal had been talking about chopping vegetables and not her career, but it wasn’t as if she was great at delegating in any sphere of her life. She’d taken a deep breath and hit Send. What was done was done. She wasn’t a child, she wasn’t in the wrong, and she wouldn’t feel guilty about asking for help.

She was almost at her apartment building’s door when she noticed the man standing out front. She repositioned her key for best eyeball jab-ability, just in case, but when he turned at the sound of her footsteps she recognized the delivery guy from the night before. He held another Yellow Spatula box.

“A little late for dinner, huh?” She loosened her grip on her keys, but only a little.

“Traffic was a bitch tonight. Someone rear-ended my van, then jumped out of their car and booked it. The police showed up, and getting information to them took forever. Now I’ve got angry customers blowing up my phone and no one will buzz me in.”

“Is this going to 7 N?” she asked. He nodded, the hope of a man who doesn’t want to walk up seven flights of stairs flashing in his eyes.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “It’d be the neighborly thing to do.”

“Thanks, miss.” He handed over the box. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She was a little excited at the possibility of seeing Jamal, but by the time she reached his door, she was rethinking things. Plus, although she’d looked cute that morning, after a day spent shuttling from subways to museums to park benches to coffee shops, she felt like a wrinkled, smudged facsimile of the woman who’d left her apartment with a jaunty step.