Chapter 24: Five Boxes, Open

Snow was coming down on Broadway when I pushed open the studio door.

The lamp over the long table was on.

Simone stood behind the table with her arms folded, in her gray cardigan with the sleeves pushed up.

In front of her sat a wooden tray, and on the tray, five plain boxes.

There was nothing written on the lids.

"Rule three," she said. "You don't ask what's in them."

"I haven't asked."

"Sit down and draw one."

I looked at her face, and she did not smile.

Her fingers were pressed white against her sleeves.

"Simone."

"I know what I'm doing to you. I know a tray of boxes is the worst thing I could put in front of you."

She swallowed.

"I thought about it for three weeks, and I decided I wanted it to be this one."

I understood.

I sat down in the chair across from her.

I put my hand out over the tray, and for a moment I couldn't make it come down.

"Pick," she said gently.

I took the middle box and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a slip of cream card.

It said STAY, in blue ballpoint, in handwriting that slanted badly to the right.

I took the second box.

STAY.

The third.

STAY.

"They're all the same," I said. My voice was not steady.

"I was told that's how it works."

I laughed, and it broke in the middle.

The fourth box said STAY.

I held the fifth in both hands.

Under the slip lay a brass key on a ring, with a small cardboard repair tag tied through it.

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