The grey paint flakes off the ceiling and falls over each swatch of fabric that the girls work on. But she doesn't see them brushing flakes and smoothing folds because they're all coat-wearing and headed out the door when she comes in at five. It is the earliest she could get out of the office and breathe. Mr. DeAngelo is wreathed in smiles like a mortician. He presses her palm with both of his for not long enough, then leads her through the dark room with the sewing machines to a darker hall in back of the warehouse.
Light comes from a few blocked high windows, filtered as through the leaded panes of a church.
In the corner, behind a wicker chair and some stools of dubious pine, she sees her two-seater. It still wears the same fabric on its frame, including fraying. She moves toward the corner. She looks around, but no one is there. She looks up and overhead in the rafters, up above the windows where light hangs.