“Work,” I say. “You?” “Same.” She clears her throat, straightening her back, gaining her composure. “You’re a singer now? That’s great, Mal.” “I write songs,” I correct, taking a sip of my whiskey. I can tell she’s shocked and hurt by the fact that I’m not hurling myself at her with love declarations. That makes both of us, if you ask twenty-two-year-old Mal. “You?” I jut my chin in her direction. “Photographer for Blue Hill Records.” She smiles, trying to break the ice. “Gosh, Mal. I never thought I’d see you again. But I see we’re still as predictable as the places we come from.” “Speak for
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