One floor lamp is on in the suite's living room. Sloane is folded into the corner of the couch, jacket over the armrest, heels kicked under the coffee table, holding a cup of coffee that stopped being hot a while ago. When she hears you come out, she closes the laptop.

She pushes the second cup across the table toward you. There is a note stuck to the rim in her handwriting — “if it's cold, pour it out, don't be polite about it” — and she doesn't say when she poured it.

She pulls her legs in to clear half the couch, and when she looks up her face is less assembled than it is in daylight.