When I was homeless, and starving, I’d sometimes have out-of-body experiences. People would walk past me, and for a second I would be them, glancing at my expensive watch as I strolled to my high-paying job as a consultant or hedge fund manager. Sometimes I would see myself out of the corner of my eye, a hairy, sunburned ruin in faded rags. But most of the time I would be invisible. That lawyer or executive would look right at me and see an empty patch of sidewalk.

Now, as Sindy parks the car in front of the log cabin, I have another dissociative moment. For a second, I’m that jittery black man with the horn-rimmed glasses, and Timothy Blake is watching us from the bushes. I look, but don’t see him. Nor do I see any sign of the police coming to arrest Sindy and vindicate me.

‘Something wrong?’ Sindy asks, as we get out of the car.

‘No. Nice place,’ I say, looking at the cabin as though I haven’t already examined it inside and out.

‘Thanks. My father-in-law built it, and when my husband died, it became mine.’

‘I’m sorry. About your husband.’

She bows her head. ‘Thank you.’

As we walk up to the door, she says, ‘Just letting you know, my hobby is taxidermy. The house is full of animals. I’ve been practising since I was a little girl, so I’m used to it, but it can be jarring for newcomers. I didn’t want to surprise you.’

‘I like surprises.’

She inserts the key into the lock, and touches my arm. ‘I bet,’ she says, smiling.

She opens the door and switches on the light. My gaze immediately flicks to the wolf. Sindy has done a great job. Even knowing that it’s long-dead, I can’t shake the feeling that it might move.

Sindy looks me up and down. ‘You’re the first guy not to react,’ she says.

‘I’m just frozen with terror,’ I tell her.

She smiles at the false modesty. I listen for sirens. Still nothing. We could be the last two people on Earth.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Sindy asks.

Bad idea. ‘No, thank you.’

‘You sure?’ she says, still headed for the kitchen.

‘I don’t drink,’ I say.

‘Ah.’ She turns back. There are any number of reasons someone might not drink. Religion, health, taste. But in Texas, people always assume you’re an alcoholic.

‘I have to tell you something,’ Sindy says.

‘I’m all ears.’

‘She might not wake up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘One day, the right man will come.’ Her eyes are bright, but sad. ‘He’ll touch her in just the right way, and she’ll be roused. But that man may not be you.’

‘I understand,’ I say, though I don’t.

Sindy takes my hand. ‘Are you ready to meet her?’