“And . . . favored nations, right?” he said, looking down at his shoes.

“Favored nations?”

“The same rules apply to me.”

Oh. The foldout couch in his office; he probably hadn’t done anything on it but he wanted permission to now. I waited to feel a rush of overwhelming jealousy and rage. Indeed, I was shaking. But—and it took me a moment to realize this—only with surprise. One could even call it hope. He, Harris, the telephotographer, had seen me, or more of me anyway, enough, and I wasn’t being cast out. I could remain with him and our child in this house, as I really was.

“Of course,” I said, the same way I said I do at our wedding—no way of knowing for sure, but here’s hoping.