She got home at one.
Bram was asleep. The apartment was the way she had left it — Priva had come and gone, Bram had been picked up and bathed and put to bed by someone other than her, and the apartment had the quality it had when it had been taken care of by a person who was not its main resident. Everything in place. Nothing wrong. She sat down on the kitchen floor because the chair felt like too much of a decision.
She sat there for a while.
She turned Corbin's question over. Not analyzing it — she had already analyzed it, she could do that in under a minute: a sincere offer from a genuine person, no manipulation, no conditions she could not meet, a man who had described her son accurately and left it there. She had been sitting with the analysis for two years, updating it periodicall
