“Maybe, as in I can read it?” “M.,” he said softly. “I hate my own failure.” “That’s a no?” she said. “That’s a no,” he said. “Okay,” she said. But he had to go to the city the next day to meet with his agent, and she went to his aerie at the top of the house, all scattered papers and coffee cups growing fur, and sat and read what was in the file folder. She stood and went to the window. She thought of the boy who had drowned in the icy black water, of a mermaid, of herself. “Shame,” she said to the dog. “It could have been so great.”
