“I decided to come over,” I whispered.

The darkness inside was juxtaposed against the lights across the street, an office building where at night you could watch various janitors moving through every floor, pushing big carts. Each cubicle was the same—pick up the wastebasket, tip it into the bin on the cart, put it back under the desk, look around idly, move to the next cubicle. Sometimes when you’re desperately trying to preserve a life, it’s good to look out the window once in a while and see what you’re preserving. A version of it, anyway. Every few cubicles, the guy would do something different, like stop and adjust his earbuds or move his head rhythmically to what he was hearing or reach down into his pants for a second to set something straight. Then you realize: Oh, right. Life.

She didn’t ask why everyone was there, she didn’t ask why the lights weren’t on, why there were candles burning, and she didn’t relax either. “Hi!” she kept saying whenever she made out another face in the dimness. We all just sat with her or drifted around, trying to read the spines of the books on the shelves, peering out the window at the office building, resting our hands on the bed—but not on her—whispering. At some point people started clearing out and it was just Emma and me, with Daisy in the kitchen reading a magazine, and Kathy asked for the lights to be turned on.

“So nice of you to come over,” she said formally.

Emma left to go uptown and I said goodbye too, but instead of leaving, I went into her bedroom and climbed on the bed. There were no blankets; all I had was my winter coat, but Daisy came in and put an afghan over my legs. For the rest of the night I drifted, hearing them out there, Daisy helping her get comfortable, the occasional cries and groans every time she had to be adjusted.

The night went on and on, and I kept my eyes closed against the sounds from the living room, but I didn’t really sleep, just watched everything replay itself in my head. The moon shining off the limestone walls of the Taconic Parkway, my car moving through the wormhole behind a splash of light, banking around the curves, the guy upending the wastebaskets and rocking out to something in his head, the other guy from long ago rhythmically bumping his hip against the pinball machine, my tilted saltshaker balanced on nothing.

And because you can’t make this shit up, it was that same night that the upstate winter wind improbably and nearly impossibly blew open the window on the duck house, and the raccoon, who swung by every night like a watchman with his lantern, sniffing at the cracks where the Mars light of the warming bulb shone through, balancing on the sill to check the window against its sturdy latch, on this one particular night, with its stillness and bitter cold and sudden gusts of wind, the window broke open, carrying the latch and two screws with it, and the raccoon climbed in and killed the ducks, even long-term Ira, who had survived other various lesser encroachments, but this time, no. This time they were helpless, tucked into the warm red bordello of the shed.