Admittedly, Evelyn and Will's relationship took a new and interesting turn as of this past week, but she isn't the sort of person to kiss and tell. The ongoing thing is still ongoing, that she knows of. Perhaps it is popular in the twenty-first century for people to divulge the sordid details of their sexual exploits, but Evelyn hardly plans on assuming that mantle of vulnerability in front of a teenager.

"I used to," she volunteers, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "My older brother was here for several months, a year or so ago."

With all the gentility of an upper-crust hostess, Evelyn leads Abigail around the furthest shelf to a pair of desks, one of them considerably more used than the other. Mark Meltzer's files spiral waist-high from the floor-up, a thin layer of dust coats the papers over his workspace. Evelyn's desk is marginally tidier, but only just. She hadn't the heart to move his things after he disappeared.

On a little electric stove in the corner, a kettle begins to whistle. It prompts her to gather cups and saucers before steeping the leaves and turning back to Abigail.

"When did you arrive?"