The neighboring casino had lights burning above its entrance and people going in as if the afternoon had never broken in two. We reached it by the route we had been given. I stopped short of the doors when I heard the machines inside. Their bright, regular noise struck me as an insult.
"They could turn those off," I said.
Bram stood beside me, his newspaper tucked under his arm. "Maybe. But we were told we could come here."
"That doesn't make it decent." I could see a woman laughing beside a man in a checked jacket. I knew nothing about her. She might have been frightened, or relieved, or telling a story that had nothing to do with Harvey's. I gave her none of those possibilities.
Near the entrance, other displaced guests were asking questions. An employee explained that these premises were outside the restricted area and available to us. A man asked why this casino had not been emptied too. The answer was that neighboring places in safe areas did not necessarily have to evacuate.
I listened from a few steps away. It was not a promise about every building around Lake Tahoe, or an invitation to choose our own boundaries. It was an explanation of why we had been directed here. The open doors were not evidence that nobody cared. They were doors we were allowed to use.
"You coming?" Bram asked.
I followed him inside. Cool air touched the damp place between my shoulders. I had not noticed how hot I had become outdoors. The noise was still unpleasant, but now I could separate my dislike of it from a claim that it should not exist.
A woman behind a counter directed us toward seating and telephones. I asked her to repeat the location of the phones, then repeated it back. She had other people waiting, and I stepped aside before asking whether there was any news about returning to rooms. Her lack of an answer was plain enough in the questions she was already receiving.
We found two chairs where I could keep my purse in my lap. Bram sat with a small sound of relief. I remained upright, knees together, watching people carry drinks past us. Taking a comfortable chair felt like accepting an afternoon I had not agreed to.
"You don't have to enjoy the chair," he said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You keep looking at it like it cheated you."
I almost got up. Instead I set both feet firmly on the carpet and let my back touch the cushion. My ankles had swollen above my shoes. I had been retired long enough to forget that standing worried was still standing.
Bram unfolded his newspaper, then folded it again without reading. "I can sit here while you call. Not watch your things," he added, glancing at my purse. "Just keep the other chair if nobody needs it more."
The correction mattered. I did not have to hand over my possessions or turn him into a guardian. He was offering a chair and his continued presence, not responsibility for my daughter. I could accept something that small without making it into a debt too large to bear.
I went to look at the telephones before joining the line. The alcove was public and busy. A man held a receiver against his shoulder while searching his wallet; a woman spoke so quietly I could not hear a word. Ordinary calls were taking place alongside frightened ones. Nobody could sort them from a distance.
I read the instructions and counted my coins without putting them in the slot. Nolan's number was the one I knew. The message on the back of the receipt now needed a definite location, so I returned to the counter and confirmed how to identify these premises to someone coming by an accessible route.
Back at the chair, I added the location to my note. Bram did not ask to inspect it. I read it aloud anyway, checking that it said I was safe, where I was waiting, and that Tessa should not approach the closure. It sounded spare after everything I felt.
"That'll tell somebody what to do," he said.
The machines continued their cheerful racket. I still wished they would stop. But when a chair became empty nearby, I moved my purse off the neighboring cushion so another guest could sit. Then I took my coins and the corrected message to the telephone line.