After having discussed the situation with Liz Gordon, Hood and Sharon decided to tell the kids calmly and openly what was happening. For the last time as a family, they sat in the den-the same room where they had set up their Christmas tree every year and taught the kids Monopoly and chess and had birthday parties. Alexander seemed to take it well after being assured that his life wouldn't change very much. Harleigh was initially upset, feeling that what had happened to her was the cause.

Hood and his wife assured Harleigh that was not the case at all, and they would both be there for her.

When they were finished, Sharon had dinner with Harleigh at home, and Hood took Alexander out to their favorite greasy pit, the Corner Bistro-the "Coroner Bistro" as the health-conscious Sharon called it.

Hood put on his best face, and they had a fun time. Then he came back to the house, quickly and quietly packed a few things, and left for his new home.

Hood looked around the hotel room. There was a glass-covered desk with a blotter, a lamp, and a folder full of postcards. A queen-sized bed.

An industrial strength carpet that matched the opaque drapes. A framed print of a painting of a harlequin whose outfit matched the carpet. A dresser with a built-in cabinet for a mini refrigerator and another cabinet for the TV. And, of course, a drawer with a Bible. There was also a night table with a lamp like the one on the desk, four wastebaskets, a clock, and a box of tissues he had moved from the bathroom.

My new home, he thought again.

Except for the laptop on the desk and the pictures of the kids beside it-last year's school photos, still in their warping cardboard frames-there was nothing of home here. The stains on the carpet weren't apple juice Alexander had spilled as a boy. Harleigh hadn't painted the picture of the harlequin. The refrigerator wasn't stocked with rows of plastic containers filled with that wretched kiwi-strawberry-yogurt juice that Sharon liked.

The television had never shown home videotapes of birthday parties, pool parties, and anniversaries, of relatives and coworkers who were gone.

Hood had never watched the sun rise or set from this window. He had never had the flu or felt his unborn child kick in this bed. If he called out to the kids, they wouldn't come.

Tears pressed against the backs of his eyes. He turned to look at the clock, anything to break the steady succession of thoughts and pictures.

He would have to get ready soon. Time-and government-stopped for no man. He still had professional obligations. But lord God, Hood thought, he didn't feel like going. Talking, putting on a happy face the way he did with his son, wondering who knew and who didn't in the instant message machine known as the Washington grapevine.