She stared silently at the perfect, whole press-on nail, imagining the woman who would have glued it to her finger, a woman with a man’s short hair and a man’s plain T-shirt but the vanity to want her hands to look nice. She sat back and lifted her head to inhale, like a diver surfacing for air: a crescent of moon was etched against the night sky, so bright that when she blinked she saw its afterglow.