ELARA
Anya arrived.
She came through the door with a paper bag from that twenty-four-hour Korean bakery on Lexington that she swore cured everything from heartbreak to hangovers, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot she'd apparently been keeping in her car for emergencies, and her hair still half-wild from whatever she'd interrupted to come here.
The guy from the phone call did not appear. I didn't ask.
"Okay." She set everything on the kitchen island and turned to look at me with the focused expression she usually reserved for fabric assessments and determining whether men were worth her time. A quick diagnostic. Top to bottom. "You've been crying."
"A little."
"Your nose is doing the thing."
"I know."
"Mimi's wet."
I looked down. The rabbit was damp against my sweater, which I hadn't noti
