Page 108 of Under Story

Gloria grips her mug. “Why not?”

“You might be surprised by what scholarships don’t cover. Food. Books. Sometimes even room and board. It isn’t right.”

Gloria deflates. At this distance, Laurel can smell the mildew of her dress. Below that is a more complicated odor—not quite unclean, but of the body.

“Forgive me for asking,” Laurel says, “but do you have a place to live?”

“Yes,” says Gloria. “At the Sunrise Home for Women.”

Despite its cheerful name, the Sunrise Home isn’t. At Progress Senior Living, where Clare was enrolled, premier services come with a commensurate price tag. Elders who can’t be raised by next of kin—or whose relatives can’t afford a facility like Progress—are funneled into state-funded welfare institutions. Some are merely spartan; others are actively neglectful. Sunrise has a reputation for the latter. It pains Laurel to think of Gloria there, but it does make sense. In Laurel’s world, Gloria didn’t have children; here, there was no one to raise her. Some elderly adults are adopted out of care, but this clearly hadn’t happened to Gloria.

“Well, that’s good,” says Laurel. The Gloria she knew was not averse to much, but she did recoil from sympathy.

“Right now,” Gloria adds, “I’m traveling.”

“Anywhere interesting?”

“State parks, mostly.”

Her cane leans against the wall. Laurel wonders how well she sleeps: it can’t be easy to camp with physical limitations. Gloria’s stubbornness strikes her as typical of any young genius. But young people often leave institutions like Sunrise with behavioral challenges, too. Laurel has students who struggle to work collaboratively, or who become overly attached. For others, a hard exterior shields tender self-reliance. Gloria probably hasn’t had many allies.

And here she is, asking for one.

“This might sound funny,” Laurel says, “but would you like to join me for dinner? A colleague canceled, and I’m craving falafel. We could keep talking.”

Laurel is fibbing, but she’s good at fibbing now. For the first time, the other Gloria grins.

—

Before they leave the office, Gloria’s phone rings. She retrieves a battered Android.

“It’s my college counselor,” she says. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” says Laurel.

Laurel is glad that she seems to have an advocate. Gloria steps into the hallway. While waiting, Laurel texts Eli.

I just met Gloria.

Eli starts typing immediately. A string of emojis arrives: shocked face, party face, exploding head.

About time, he writes.

I offered to take her out for dinner, types Laurel. Can you feed S?

She puts her phone in her pocket. After Gloria returns, they ride the elevator downstairs. Library Mall is eternally under construction, so Laurel suggests that they turn right on Park Street. Her phone buzzes as they pass the W-shaped tulips in front of Humanities.

Sorry for delay, Eli wrote. Silas just . Re: dinner—he inserted a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a plate with silverware. I suspect he’ll pass, but otherwise, I’m on it.

Laurel brings Gloria to the Levantine café on State Street. The atmosphere is casual, with tiled floors and vinyl tablecloths, but Gloria toys self-consciously with a hole in her dress. She brightens when dinner arrives: tangy hummus, crisp falafels, couscous with dates and almonds.

Laurel asks about her travels. “You must have seen some interesting fungi.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Any favorites?”

“I found a cluster of Xylaria polymorpha growing out of a wood barrel in Grant County. Pretty spooky.” The common name of Xylaria polymorpha is dead man’s fingers, which is exactly what they look like; in the antiuniverse, panicked hikers often mistake them for composing bodies. “And coral fungus, at Kohler-Andrae State Park. Clavaria…?”