He led me into a large room that served as kitchen, living area, and bedroom all at once. It was, I imagined, not so different from one of the efficiency apartments in West Fever, although of a better class. The TV was tuned to MSNBC, the volume turned down. Rachel Maddow, looking good in a close-cut jacket, spoke sincerely into the camera. In front of it, two old men sat at a table that looked as if it had been nailed together out of driftwood. One of them I recognized. His name was Terry Gallagher, and that evening he wore a floppy-brimmed fishing hat with a LOCK HER UP pin on it. I saw Gallagher every Thursday morning when I brought the Bookmobile around to Serenity Apartments. He would scuffle slowly through the library car, grousing at books by bleeding-heart lefties like Michael Moore, Elizabeth Warren, and Dr. Seuss, then check out something by Laura Ingraham. The other guy at the table I had never met. Loren Hayes was riding a bulky, electrically powered wheelchair and had an oxygen tube in his nose. He shot me a wary look with bloodshot eyes.

He had a big, craggy face with somewhat comical, oversize features. He was heavily overweight, but even still his head was too big for his body, an effect amplified by the great oily black sweep of his hair, which he combed Ronald Reagan style. His white T-shirt, which showed Ian McKellen standing in front of a gay-pride flag, clung to the bulge of his stomach and his sagging bosom. (Across the top it read GANDALF IS GAY, AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, YOU’RE PROBABLY AN ORC.)

“What are we playing?” I asked as I sat down. Ralph took the bourbon off my hands, unscrewed the top, and poured an inch into a quartet of chipped mugs and plastic cups.

“An old, well-loved game,” Gallagher called. “Put on MSNBC and see how long Terry Gallagher can sit there before he loses his goddamned mind. It’s like putting a lobster into a pot of cold water and turning on the heat. They want to see how long I can take it before I start leaping to escape.”

“Someone open the window,” Loren Hayes said. “We’re on the third floor. Maybe he’ll leap that way.”

Ralph sat down with us. “How about Hearts? There’s four of us, we’ve got just the right number. Come on now, Mr. Gallagher. We turned the sound off for you. The bad woman can’t hurt you. We’ll keep you safe from all her reason and science and compassion.”

“Just keep your back turned,” Loren Hayes added. “If you look at her, there’s the very real possibility you might catch a glimpse of empathy and it’ll give you a sour tummy.”