She shrugged. “He aged well? Or … I just didn’t notice.”

“How long ago was this? When he came in.”

She hesitated, and the smile had begun to fade. I began to get a floating sensation.

“Ten minutes before you came in just now?”

Ten minutes.

Floating became a falling. Nausea. Focused on the neon-red roll of lotto tickets, the calm rows of blue-and-green disposable lighters, the silver-wrapped caffeinated protein bars.

Where was this man now?

“He’s your boyfriend or something, right? This is part of the scavenger hunt?”

But she already knew from my reaction. She went quiet, the look on her face as if a lemon drop had teleported into her mouth. Not in a good way.

“What do you mean?” But I knew what she meant.

“This man in the wig—he told me you’d be coming in and asking about him. He said you were old friends. That it would be funny to tell you. That you’d laugh about it.”

The sound had come back to me, of one man scuffling with another behind the fence. Of one of them falling. Of the calm of the other.

“He showed me your photograph, too.”

“What photograph?”

She hesitated again. “Of you at your daughter’s birthday party.”

Numb, I drove back to the house. A photo from my phone. A photo from my phone. How long had it not been secure? I resisted the urge to smash it against the dashboard and toss it out the window. I needed to know the extent of the damage. Better “they” not know for sure that I knew.

I turned the key in the front door, decided, paranoid, to go in the back door instead. Checked every room for signs of an intruder. Found nothing.

I stared down at the lawn from the master bedroom, then stepped away from the window. The sense of vertigo was intense. It was hard to get a grip on what was happening.

The woods down below on the fringe looked like a blank wall of brown with hints of dull green. It had begun to rain, a chill back in the air. I was sweating. I could hear the sound of my own breathing. What now?

It took an effort of will to walk downstairs. I had to check something, a stray thought, another bit of paranoia. But I had to be sure. Along the way, I picked up a poker from the fireplace, went outside, my limbs watery, letting the poker drag across the grass. A thudding in my ears.

Out to the woods. In the rain. The mist of it pearled on my clothes, sunk in damp and humid.

There was the bottle, placed upright again.

But no drone. Not a single piece of the drone remained, as if I’d imagined it.

Beside the bottle: unsmoked cigarettes of various brands formed a taunting circle around the bottle.