He sent back a drawing, big nose and eyes peering over a wall—Kilroy was here—which he realized dated him, so he said how much the Kilroy drawing resembles the sign for omega and wondered if that went into the creation.

She had read it and smiled and immediately sent back an alpha. A beginning? Dominance? And why did he allow his mind to see what was conjured by that, and why did he want to enter that imagined space, like a quiet, dark room, footsteps silenced, drapes drawn to the harsh glare of day, a place of secret rest and release? He was a married man, with children out on their own as well, and she was on the fast track: an appointment for further doctoral work at Harvard, a piece all about an excavation in Peru about to be published, a boyfriend off somewhere in the Peace Corps.

He realized his mind had wandered; he had no idea what was being discussed in the meeting, and he tried to appear indifferent to her new scribbling. She wrote: What’s the Maat-er? Truth? Justice? Maybe she was letting him know she had a sense of humor, by playing with the Egyptian goddess’s name in that way, not taking it all seriously, perhaps telling him she was someone to be trusted.

He wanted to return something witty but felt himself going blank. Something playful about Ba, how he felt he was moving between the living and the dead, his outward appearance and interactions with the world half-hearted and unfulfilled, his empty soul hoping to find the physical manifestation that would allow him rest.

The idea was hers first, after all. One day in his office, when she began the habit of stopping by after lunch, she had asked how crazy it is to imagine being in one of the ancient tombs, to be one of the humans placed there to service the waking king. “You would have food and riches,” she said. “I think you would hope he would wake, right?” She was watching him so closely he had to look out the window. “I mean, you would know it couldn’t last forever. The wine and food would run out. The air.” It was raining outside, and he watched students rushing along the brick paths, heads down, books cradled, colorful umbrellas, and when he turned back, she was still watching him, smiling. “But it could be pretty good for a night or two.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think that’s probably right.” He laughed and then spent days wondering what message he had sent. A yes? A no?

What’s the Maat-er?