" mercy and with this heat, you know—and my anemia.” She sighed. “My brain’s already turned to mush.” “Sit down.” Concerned now, he guided her to a small spindle-back chair in the landing’s corner. “I’ve got a message for an attendee. His name’s Antoine. I’ve never met him, monsieur.” She gave a big sigh. “Very sad. This comes from Rafael Santos, Professor Neliad’s assistant at the Polytechnic,” she said, ready to launch into the story she’d fabricated on the long ride. Rafael, an actual Spanish engineering student Kate had known in ’37, had become the assistant to his advisor, Professor Neliad, a short squat perfectionist Raphael had mimicked incessantly. “I hate to trouble you, monsieur, but it’s important I speak with Antoine. Please.” The man set down his folder, which was labeled école polytechnique. “But what’s so important?” She had to make this credible. Make him believe her. She sniffled and shook her head. “There’s horrible news. Antoine’s mother . . .” She paused for effect. “A terrible accident in front of her apartment. The bus "

― Cara Black , Three Hours In Paris