“Me? Not so much anymore. I moved away from Chicago a couple of years ago. Too many people, too much winter. I tried to get Edgar to go with me, but he’s a stubborn old mule, wouldn’t leave the city. I’m on the sand near Cocoa now. Pick up odd jobs here and there, but it’s all about the waves.”

“Surfing?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Well, that’s one way to live,” I said, absolutely horrified.

“Yeah. Best thing I ever did.” He stuck out his hand for me to shake. “Dylan Moran. Ex-Chicagoan turned beach bum.”

“My name’s Dylan, too,” I replied.

“Small world.”

“Very small.”

I looked around at the rest of the museum. Every detail matched my memory, every painting looking as vivid as the original, every window in the skylight and every angled floorboard under my feet looking unchanged. It seemed impossible to me that my mind could replicate the entire museum in an instant, but here I was. Except where were all the other versions of myself?

Surfer Dylan and I were alone.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said to him.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen him. Choppy dark hair, heavy five-o’clock shadow, mean smile. He likes to wear a beat-up old leather biker jacket with stains on it.”

The other Dylan’s smile disappeared. “Man, you don’t want to find him. He’s bad news.”

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“Word gets around. That dude’s trouble. Whatever you do, don’t let him follow you out of here.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned around, I saw another Dylan Moran walk into the gallery. This one had a completely shaved head, wore a black turtleneck, and had silver circular glasses on his face. Everything about him was neat and orderly. He wandered past us without a word to a nearby painting, Peter Blume’s surrealistic The Rock. The centerpiece of the painting was a jagged sphere, like a pink geode cut open, around which men were laboring with hammers and stone slabs. A lone woman on her knees grasped for the sphere, as if worshipping it. Bald Dylan stood with perfect posture as he examined the painting, his hands folded together in front of him. Every now and then, he leaned forward to study a particular detail.

“This is a working man’s painting,” I said, joining him.

He studied me with a serious expression, but like Surfer Dylan, he showed no recognition that we were twins. “Yes, my father used to say this painting was about the ennoblement of the union man.”

“I can’t remember my father ever going to the museum.”

“No? My father worked here until he retired. He was an art historian. Actually, the museum runs in the family in a way. His father was the reason we got Nighthawks here.”

“Daniel Catton Rich? The car accident?”