It was a humbling experience, standing in the pissing rain on Dylan’s doorstep with a baking dish swathed in foil, shivering in my ladybug rainboots as Zeta Casablancas regarded me with the suspicion of a prison guard. “Calla, cucciolotta, I am so sorry for your loss.” She sniffled through the tiny crack in the door. Not sorry enough to let me in, I thought uncharitably. “Is she waiting for you?” She peered beyond my shoulder, still blocking the entryway.
