Margot said nothing.
She put her arms around me.
She was five foot two, and fierce, and smelled of champagne and hairspray, and she held on so tightly I could feel her heartbeat through the silk. I put my chin on her shoulder. I looked at a patch of wall. I did not cry.
"You can still run," said Margot, into my neck. "I have a scooter."
"You do not."
"I could get a scooter."
"It would be a very small getaway."
"It would be dignified."
I laughed.
It was a thin, ragged sound, but it was a laugh, and it went through me like a loosened thread. Margot pulled back, wiped her face with the heel of her hand, and looked at me with her fierce red eyes.
"Say the word," she said.
"I can't."
"Because of your parents."
"Because of four hundred people, and a night porter named Mr. Okafor, an
