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Who was the man who lied to you? You didn’t give me his name. Does he still work there?

You say you’re safe. I want to believe that. Write again.

The roof patch is holding. Tovi says to tell you the roof patch is holding, as if that is news.

Asha has underlined the part about the money and pressed hard enough to puncture the paper after the question about Neimura.

I trace the little hole. I can picture her making it, bent over the counter after closing, still wearing the apron she had on when I told her I’d entered the market.

“I should have written again before this came,” I say.

Daurek passes me a cup. “You can write now.”

“She wants to know about Neimura.”

“Tell her.”

“I will.”

I take a drink. The tea is strong and hot. For a moment I want to be upstairs over the stall with my sister, hearing her tell me off where I can answer her.

Then Daurek shifts beside me, and I want to keep him here too.

“I’ve told you about Tovi singing,” I say. “Asha laughs so hard when he starts that she has to sit down. He gets louder because he knows she’s trying to stop him.”

“Does she laugh like you?”

“Louder. She snorts when she tries to stop.”

He smiles. I imagine Asha seeing that expression on his face and being surprised despite herself.

I bend over my reply and catch the edge of the wet ink with my smallest finger.

“Damn it.”

Daurek takes the clean cloth from beside the kettle and wets one corner with a little tea. I give him my stained hand. He cleans the ink away while I try the next sentence aloud.

“Neimura is handing over the records under Reivaka’s supervision,” I say. “He can’t make agreements for you anymore.”

“That’s right.”

I write it down after he gives me back my hand. Asha won’t like him any better, but at least she’ll know what he’s allowed to do.

I add a sentence about how long the review is taking and another about the walks I’ve been taking with Daurek. Then I stop trying to make the two subjects sound as if they have nothing to do with each other.

I like him, Asha. I’d like you to meet him. I don’t know yet where I’ll live when I’m free to leave.

I put down the pen before I can cross that out.

Rain taps the leaves beyond my window. Someone in the courtyard calls for a missing bowl. Daurek doesn’t move while I read the whole reply, and when I’m finished, I lean against his shoulder.

“What do you miss most?” he asks.

“Apart from them?”

“Apart from them.”

“The noise when the market opens. All the awnings rattling, everyone shouting because no one’s had breakfast. Here I wake up wondering if I’ve overslept.”