The phone screen went dark again, for the third or fourth time, and stayed that way at last. Whoever had been trying to reach her must have finally settled for voicemail.
Nell sighed, deflated. Humphrey was right, and she hated it.
“I get it,” she finally said.
“Look, I get it, too,” Humphrey replied, his voice gentler now. Even with her refusing to ever talk about the past, he’d been able to glean over the years just how passionate Nell had been about the work she used to do and the maps she used to curate. “I know this is not your dream career.”
“Humphrey, I’m sorry,” Nell started. Most of the time, Humphrey found their blue-collar boss versus uptight academic back-and-forth entertaining, but she knew she should be more grateful. After the Junk Box Incident, Humphrey was the only employer even just barely associated with the cartography industry that would take her in. Classic was hardly map work, but it was better than nothing at all. “Like you said, it’s not even nine a.m.—”
“Hey, all forgiven.” He rapped his knuckles on her desk, and then fished a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “How about some coffee? My treat. You want one of those fancy caramel-mocha-swirly-whipped-cappuccino things?”
Nell forced a smile at his generosity. She was his head design technician, but the office was small. She was also the head accountant. She knew how tight money was, and how badly the office was falling apart. “Just black with some cream.”
Humphrey smiled back and pressed the bill into her palm. “See you soon, then.”
“You are insufferable,” she laughed, reaching for her purse with her other hand.
“Those stairs are insufferable!” he called after her over the slam of the office door.
Outside, the air was brisk and biting. Nell wrapped her cardigan tighter around her and set off, shivering. There was an artsy coffee shop across the street that would serve the kind of adjective-laden drink Humphrey had described, but she turned right and headed down the sidewalk for the bodega on the corner, where they bought their morning coffee most days. The owner was an old woman from Bangladesh, and Nell liked that no matter the weather or day, for as long as she’d known her, Farah always wore orange. There was at least some item of clothing on her that was bursting with that bright citrus hue. It made the whole shop warmer, somehow.
The bell on the door jangled sharply as she pushed her way in, and Farah—unfailingly, in orange—glanced up from her crossword puzzle and tipped her head. Nell made her way to the back of the bodega, where she poured two cups of coffee from the stainless-steel thermos, and then brought them to the counter.
“‘Something lines,’” Farah muttered, brow furrowed. She and Nell never chitchatted, just nodded at each other and occasionally traded puzzle hints, which made Nell like her even more. “Only three letters.”
“Try ‘ley,’” she replied as she held out Humphrey’s money.
“What?”
“Ley. L-E-Y.” Ley lines. She smiled. It was a mapmaking term.
The old woman studied the crossword, and then nodded briskly. It fit.
The cash register clicked, the drawer shot open, and Farah handed Nell her change. Nell grabbed a coffee with each hand and ducked into the cold morning again. She almost made it back to their building in one breath, but had to suffer one more lungful of biting air before she scrambled inside and up the stairs.
“Nell.” Humphrey’s voice echoed from the other side of the office as soon as she opened the door.
“I got the coffee,” she replied, but trailed off as she rounded the corner and saw the expression on his face.
“Did you take your phone with you?” he asked. He wasn’t in his office, but by her desk.