“About that,” I said.

“Sorry, no returns.”

“I haven’t spent any of the money.”

“You bought a car,” he said.

“I did do that, but I can still give you back the full amount, all three million and whatever else you put in there.”

“Good lawd, that’s a lot of money,” Gloria said with a strange and manic face.

“I don’t think you understand, Wala. That money came out of my portfolio and as soon as it did it stopped earning. You would actually have to pay me back close to five million dollars.”

“That’s quite an increase,” I said.

“What can I say, crime is a high-yield investment.” He rubbed Eigen’s thigh. “Right, my dear? I’m investing in you two. I do hope I’ve invested wisely. I sincerely hope that.” He punctuated his words with a look into my eyes that might have been read as threatening or menacing by anyone who was not on the spectrum. But I am on the spectrum, and so I stared back at him.

“What are you thinking about, Wala?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Well, it’s about time.” He stood. “We would say pack up, but as there is nothing to be packed, I’ll just say let’s go.” “Where?” I asked.

“Miami,” Sill said. “But first to a movie. It will be fun.”

“A movie? I have no interest in seeing a movie. I just want to go home.”

“It’s a short movie.” Sill looked at the sky. “We’ll watch it and then, whoosh, off into the wild blue yonder. Besides, you haven’t a choice. Everyone to the theater.”

We walked across the compound (the campus, Sill called it) to what, even from the outside, looked like a theater. There was an old-fashioned ticket booth, at which Sill paused and pretended to purchase tickets from the dummy behind the glass. Inside there was a concession stand with real people behind the counter. There was an abundance of candies and we were instructed to just say what we wanted. “Your childhood favorites,” Sill said. Eigen asked for Raisinets. I would have settled for a raison d’être, but it was not to be. I asked for Goobers. We four were the only audience in a room that must have sat three hundred people. We sat and the film started.

Un Chien Andalou. We watched and then the house lights came up. As we were walking out, Sill asked me if I was going to question him about his film choice. I said I was not. He nodded and smiled.

“Okay,” I said, once outside. “Why a silent surrealist film that even Buñuel himself thought was shit?”

“You didn’t like it,” he said. “Eigen, did you like it?”

“They split open an eye,” Eigen said. “I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that at all. Why did the man show her the time at the end?”

“He showed her his watch,” Sill said. “You can’t show time. Can you, Wala?”

“Were they dead at the end, buried in the sand like that?” Eigen was agitated. “Wala, were they dead? What did it mean? Wala?”