She reached for her purse again, digging around inside until her hand grasped the package she was looking for. She pulled out the Marlboros and a lighter, carefully choosing the next victim from the pack. She placed the smooth white cylinder between her lips and lit it, drawing it in slowly until it caught and burned. A bittersweet scent filled her nostrils, and the smoke rolled lazily down her throat. She gently blew it out a moment later, watching the light gray wisps dissipate in the air.

She let her head roll back and thump gently on the blocks behind her. She could hear the deep, rolling voice of the preacher, back in the sanctuary, begin his remarks. Amid his mumblings and the sound of her own breath, she caught another noise. Footsteps. Third time's a charm.

She turned her head to the left, waiting to see the next ambassador they'd sent for her. A moment later, he appeared. Tall, dark-haired, and surprisingly young. He was wearing a red button-down shirt and loose Khakis. Her eyes followed his form as he turned, stopped, and studied her. Shrugging, he walked over and slouched down the wall beside her.

He produced a cigarette of his own from seemingly nowhere. “Got a light?”

Wordlessly, she handed it over. She watched as he lit it and took a long draw, inhaling and exhaling with practiced ease, his face relaxing visibly. He seemed in no hurry to speak, and her curiosity nearly got the best of her. She held her ground and fought the urge to say anything. His knees were drawn up to his chest, eyes closed, right hand loosely holding his smoke. The end of it burned bright orange, and ashes started to build up. She considered telling him before they spilled onto his red shirt, but those words wouldn't come. Others came in their place.

“What's eleven times two fifths?”

He opened his eyes, focusing on something even she could not see. He didn't laugh or ask why she wanted to know.

“Four and two fifths,” he said finally, nodding slowly.

“Four and two fifths,” she murmured. Three hundred thirty-four and two fifths square feet. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They sat side by side, barely moving except to lift a cigarette or inhale. Smoke curled elegantly through the air. Down the hall, the preacher's voice rumbled on. She could feel the low, bass-like tremors of his voice through the floor.

“Jonathan Atkins was one of those men whom everyone liked. A man who could make someone better simply by being around them. He was a caring father and husband, a professor who was loved by his students, an involved member of the community...”

“Bullshit,” she muttered, angrily stabbing her cigarette against the floor before pulling another from the pack.

The young man next to her gave a rueful half-smile. “The gods, too, are fond of a joke.” He flicked some of his ashes away. “I forget who said that.”

“Aristotle.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Aristotle.” Using his free hand, he beckoned to the ceremony down the hall. “He would have hated this.”

“I know.”

He glanced over at her questioningly. She attempted to avert his gaze by examining her hand, the floor, the wall, anything in the opposite direction. But he was patient, and eventually he won out. She turned to face him and he stuck out his hand.

“Eric Blackburn. Former student.”

She studied his face for a long moment before slowly raising her right hand and clasping it with his.

“Isabelle Atkins. Daughter.”

His eyes widened a little and he nodded, as if no further explanation was necessary.

“He touched the lives of everyone he met...”

She snorted. Eric chuckled and spoke. “I remember once, this guy kept falling asleep and snoring in class... Dr. Atkins had woken him once already, but the guy was asleep again... he got so pissed he threw an eraser at him.”

Isabelle smiled and leaned forward, picking absently at the sleeve of her blouse. “He never could remember their anniversary.”

“He lost my midterm paper once.”

“He was always late.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Yeah, he was.”

She settled back and relaxed, placing her hands in her lap and ignoring the shudders through the floor. A group of soft, synchronized voices began reciting the Lord's prayer.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name...”

She shivered at the eerie, unsettling sound. She imagined all the blue and black suits and dresses with their heads lowered, chanting the words. Her father's first captive audience. What a shame it had to come now.

“ Amen .” Sniffles. One broken wail. The sound of shoes scraping against cheap blue carpet. It was over.

Eric squashed his cigarette on the ground. The ashes scattered and danced across the floor. Gray against dark blue. “Thanks for the light,” he said as he stood up, brushing away stray debris from his pants. Her gaze settled on his old brown boots as he started to walk away.

“Wait.” She clambered to her feet, stomping her cigarette and adjusting her skirt at the same time. He turned, his face open and questioning.

She hesitated. “I'm done. Wait for me.”

He smiled then; easy, sincere, honest. Her own lips followed suit as she walked after him, glancing back at the wall only once as she left.