“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Abe numbly repeated, wondering at his immense capacity for error.

"I know."

Hard angled Sheila, making herself soft, pulled "wittle gretten" into an approximation of solace that only eventually became uncomfortable.

They sat on hard courtyard benches. The director ceased hovering and brought out bottles of water and cans of ginger ale. None of the chilled crowd refused; insisting she join the drinking. After quiet talk of plans for the Center and benign stories of acquaintances made common by its functioning, the director excused herself for some very important calls and paperwork.

There was a long moment.