Grey Zone by Clea Simon Page B

hot sauce would do. If only Chris’s student hadn’t been so slim. She slid into a seat at the window counter and ordered without thinking. If only Chris’s student hadn’t had that accent. If only Dulcie hadn’t been so preoccupied with Mr Grey and Esmé. She gulped down half her water and nearly choked it back up again. If only she’d been more available.
    If only— Dulcie realized she was staring at the window, but not seeing anything. People were walking by, going about their lives. Over by the curb, a couple were holding hands. She looked down to see her burger. She took a bite, barely tasting the spicy sauce. If only she hadn’t been so obsessed. With her cats. With her thesis. With an unknown author who’d been dead for two hundred years anyway.
    â€˜Tough morning?’ Lala herself was standing beside her. ‘Because I know that burger isn’t as dry as you make it out to be.’
    Dulcie swallowed with a start and realized she’d been chewing the same mouthful of burger for several minutes by then. ‘No, really. It’s great.’ She swallowed again as something stuck in her throat.
    â€˜Here.’ Lala reached over to the counter to hand Dulcie her glass of water, grabbing a handful of napkins as well. ‘Wanna come into the back and tell me about it?’
    Dulcie blinked and nodded. Why couldn’t Lucy be like this?
    â€˜We can take your burger.’ Lala reached for the cardboard platter, and Dulcie turned to hand it to her. But as she did, her eye was caught by an olive-green cape, its hood up, moving like a specter along the curb. And right beside it, Dulcie recognized her student, Corkie. The junior was easily a head taller than the figure beside her and clearly visible, talking a mile a minute and waving her hands.
    Dulcie stood up to watch as her student stopped at the corner, still gesticulating. As more pedestrians gathered, waiting for the walk signal, Dulcie could see the top of Corkie’s head and, occasionally, her hands. She probably hadn’t checked her email yet.
    â€˜You OK, honey?’ A blast of horn. Someone had run into the street.
    â€˜What? Oh, yes, thank you, Lala.’ She looked up at the kindly face of the chef, and then back out the window. The light had changed, but she could still make out Corkie, her sleek brown hair pulled back in its customary bun. In a moment, she’d disappear, beyond Dulcie’s reach. ‘But I think I’ve got to get one thing right today.’ She shrugged her coat over her shoulders and headed to the door.
    â€˜Hang on!’ Lala shoved a hastily wrapped package into her hands, the paper bag already turning translucent from the dripping sauce. ‘Go get him!’
    Dulcie didn’t bother to correct her, but with a smile and a nod, pushed her way through a waiting group and out on to the street. But she had lost her.
    â€˜Corkie?’ Dulcie called and heard her own voice thrown back by the wind. ‘Corkie? Philomena McCorkle!’ A couple in front of her turned, and Dulcie ignored them. Couples! ‘Corkie?’
    The light was in her favor, and Dulcie crossed, heading toward the Yard. Too late, she saw that the olive cape – a woman, it had to be a woman – was far down the sidewalk, making for the Coop or the T station beside it. Dulcie stopped in mid crosswalk and watched the green hood recede, trying to make out if Corkie was still with her.
    â€˜Lady!’ The light had changed, and a cyclist maneuvered around her, his mood clearly not improved by the mud splattered all over his legs. ‘Get out of the way!’
    Dulcie jumped, landing on what appeared to be solid, gray pavement until her foot sank into it up to the ankle. Slush: the scourge of March. Shaking her foot free of the clinging, dirty ice, she made her way to the opposite side of the street.
    â€˜Watch it!’ Another pedestrian knocked into her, and with a