Diana stares out the passenger window of my car, trance-like. She’s wearing her normal “uniform,” navy slacks, white blouse, pearls—but her clothes look rumpled, like she wore them yesterday and left them on the floor before putting them on again. She’s also wearing black sneakers instead of nude pumps or ballet flats, and her hair is flat on one side (presumably the side she slept on) and she hasn’t bothered to fluff it up. She hasn’t said a word since she got in, not even to comment on the biscuit crumbs that I wiped off the seat before she sat down.
