“Roger,” Rob said.

As I got into the car, Timmy was amusing himself by kicking the seat in front of him and singing “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” I squelched the kicking and, by way of distraction, shoved in a CD Karen had left as part of Timmy’s baggage—a home-burned CD labeled “car music”—and turned on the stereo. A peppy rendition of “The Eensy Weensy Spider” echoed through the car as I drove off toward town. Normally I have nothing in particular against “The Eensy Weensy Spider,” but this singer made it sound so cutesy that I couldn’t wait for it to end.

Track two was a repeat of the same marzipan-sweet rendition of “The Eensy Weensy Spider.” I skipped the track, only to find more of the same on track three.

Timmy had calmed down considerably, though, and was chanting “eensy weensy eensy weensy” in a comparatively quiet tone, so I gritted my teeth and drove on

A few blocks from Karen’s house and twenty renditions of “The Eensy Weensy Spider” later, the program finally moved on to “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” I had the sinking feeling that the CD would consist entirely of Timmy’s five or ten favorite tunes, repeated fifteen or twenty times each.

I pulled up in front of Karen’s small bungalow and got out. Timmy seemed oblivious to our arrival at his home, and continued happily singing “Moo moo here! Moo moo there!” and waving Kiki and Blanky in the air. I considered taking him out of the car seat—there were lights on, and I could hear the sound of a TV. But I decided I’d rather have Karen’s help controlling him once I let him loose, so I figured out how to unhook the car seat from the car while still leaving him strapped inside—so that was why the thing had so many straps—and hauled him with me up to the door.

I set the car seat in a shady place beside the door, rang the door bell, and stood there for some moments, glancing back and forth between the door and Timmy. I heard a noise inside, and I noticed a slight shadow through the peephole, as if someone was checking me out. I smoothed my face into a smile and worked on looking harmless. The door finally opened and a short, twenty-something woman looked out at me with a slightly wary look.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is 125 Hawthorne Street?”

I glanced back at the mailbox, and then at the house again. It was the house I remembered visiting, and this wasn’t the kind of cookie cutter neighborhood where you could be one street over and not notice the difference. I even remembered the little planter beside the front door. The impatiens Karen had planted in it the last time I’d visited had given way to some plastic sweet peas.

“Yes,” the woman said.

“I was looking for Karen Walker—” I began.

The woman’s face changed dramatically the minute I said Karen’s name, and she drew back a step.