He says, “Hello, Viv,” and extends his hand. She says, “Are you hiding?” but he seems sanguine, almost good-natured about it. “Yes,” he says, “for a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Maybe it will not be so bad, maybe I will be able to leave the city at night.”
Upset, Viv says, “I’m sorry that I got you in this much trouble.”
“But you do not make the trouble,” the journalist assures her, “others make it. You asked a question that you have a right to answer.”
“My daughter someday will want to know who her mother is.”
“Of course,” he answers.
“She’ll hate me if I haven’t tried to find out.” She begins to cry and stops herself.
“Everyone who loves your daughter understands this.”