“Pale Fire. I haven’t seen a copy… ” His eyes and fingers wandered on. “Four Quartets. ‘The Lady’s Not for Burning.’ Oh, God, The Prisoner of Zenda.” Suddenly his drawl thickened to parody. “Land sakes,” he said, “have you read all these?”

My insides gave a leap of anger. He’d betrayed me into a momentary thaw of attitude, only to dump the resulting ice water over my head. Then I recognized the familiar sound of self-ridicule. My books had caused some failure of reserve in him, and he was only repairing the damage. “Have you?” I asked.

He was a little white-lipped. “Some of them,” he said.

“If you walk off with one, I’ll rebind a few in your hide.”

He ran his thumb down a ragged Britannica spine. “What do I do to get a little slack around here?”

“Sorry, all out of slack.”

He squeezed his forehead between thumb and fingers, which almost hid his face and the turned-up corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll just get some sleep, then.”

“In here,” I said, and stepped back into the corridor. He followed. I showed him into the little bedroom, and lit the candle on the dresser. “What about you?”

“I’ll sleep in the next room. The sink works like a sink, the icebox works like an icebox — if there’s anything in it; I don’t remember — and the toilet, which is through there, works like a toilet. Whatever you do, don’t smoke in bed, and don’t wake me up.”

I was in the corridor already when he said, “You don’t remember anything that happened last night, do you?”

No. But I never said so to you. “What makes you think that?”

He was standing in the half-open door, that vitreous grin in place, eyes alight and untrustworthy. “Because I do remember.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I know. You ever want to find out what went on all those times you can’t recall — Just ask me nicely.”

With that, the bastard shut and locked my bedroom door.

I could have broken the door open, I now realize. Or apologized lavishly through it, and begged for an explanation. Under ordinary circumstances, I’m sure I would have. Instead, I stared at the blank wood until the insides of my eyes hurt. Then I walked down the corridor to the third room, the one I didn’t show him, unlocked it, went in, and locked it behind me.

(Mick Skinner knows about last night, said my head.)

The third room was accessible through the false back of a closet. It was the largest of the rooms I called mine. It no longer had windows; sunlight does damage, and the sun, at least, I could stop. The heat, too, though not so thoroughly; the thermometer at the duct from the swamp cooler on the roof showed 78 degrees. This was the only room that wasn’t furnished like a thrift-store campsite. The steel shelving covered most of the wall area, the chair was meant to be sat in for eight hours at a stretch, and the light, when I needed it, was strong and steady. This, after all, was the terminus for the cable that came down from the roof, from the batteries that charged off the windmill disguised as a rusty roof vent.