“That’s fine,” Harry said. He opened his car door and got out. He came around to my side and opened my door. “Come, Ev,” he said kindly. He put his hand out. “It’s been a long night. You need some rest.” I suddenly felt very tired, as if once he pointed it out, I realized it had been there all along. I followed Harry to his front door. His living room was sparse but handsome, furnished with wood and leather. The alcoves and doorways were all arched, the walls stark white. Only a single piece of art hung on the wall, a red and blue Rothko above the sofa. It occurred to me then that Harry wasn’t a Hollywood producer for the paycheck. Sure, his house was nice. But there wasn’t anything ostentatious about it, nothing performative. It was merely a place to sleep for him. Harry was like me. Harry was in it for the glory. He was in it because it kept him busy, kept him important, kept him sharp. Harry, like me, had gotten into it for the ego. And we were both fortunate that we’d found our humanity in it, even though it appeared to be somewhat by accident. The two of us walked up the curved stairs, and Harry set me up in his guest room. The bed had a thin mattress with a heavy wool blanket. I used a bar of soap to wash my makeup off, and Harry gently unzipped the back of my dress for me and gave me a pair of his pajamas to wear. “Tl be just next door if you need anything,” he said. “Thank you. For everything.” Harry nodded. He turned away and then turned back to me as I was folding down the blanket. “Our interests aren’t aligned, Evelyn,” he said. “Yours and mine. You see that, right?” I looked at him, trying to determine if I did see it. “My job is to make the studio money. And if you are doing what the studio wants, then my job is to make you happy. But more than anything, Ari wants to—” “Make Don happy.” Harry looked me in the eye. I got the point. “OK,” I said. “I see it.”