I blush.

“Story of my life,” he says. “Hoisted by my own petard.”

He takes a pear from his pocket, puts it in my hand.

“No hard feelings,” he says. “You woke me up. You did. Woke us up. Saved us. Literally, yes, by, you know, killing those two. That was a big deal, for sure. Where would we be right now without you?”

“Dead,” I say.

“Dead, yes, true,” he says. “But also, emotionally, where would we be?”

Without me, I think, you would be nowhere emotionally, being dead.

“And in case you’re wondering, because I know the two of you were close?” he says. “Mikey is with some compassionate relatives. Also getting some help. This has been heartbreaking for him. Obviously.”

Then he goes out, halfheartedly straightening a few chairs en route, then giving up, as it is a big and lowly job, best left to the likes of Jean and Jed.

Though tired, I wait up.

For Mrs. U.

Likely he is out there, watching her like a hawk.

Come to me, my love, I think. I have killed in your name. And need to know it was worth it.

Then in she comes.

Yes, here she is, against his wishes.

Standing silently against Podium, she raises one finger to her lips, indicating: Stay quiet.

Ignoring his directive, I do not call out. I want her to know that I am here for her, that I will do with her whatever she desires, even to the ultimate, whatever that is.

“I want to thank you,” she whispers, leaning in, smelling good, like a rose if a rose were a bit angry. “You helped me feel good about myself during what was a really bleak time for me. You were a supportive presence at a point in my journey when I literally had no one else in my corner. In a different world, who knows? But in this world? Well, no, of course not. I’m sure, being as intelligent as you are, you fully understood that all along. My hope is that you, in here, will always think of me, out there, as a friend. Though we won’t be, uh, interacting much anymore. Or, you know, ever again. Sadly.”

Then kisses me on the forehead and goes out.

I wish to follow up with questions. But she, moving rapidly away with her back to me, fails to see my raised hand.

Soon, from Bedroom, I hear sounds, certain harrowing sounds, energetic, ecstatic, conciliatory sounds of the type that might follow closely upon a frightening, clarifying brush with death.

It just goes on and on.

Good thing adult son Mike is not home, I think.

Later, the Bedroom sounds become more hushed and confidential, less like impact and release: whispered promises, soft confessions of admiration, urgent murmurings that signal the flaring back to life of an old and valued bond.

Next morning Jed comes in.

With Craig and Lauren.

“Ed, Sharon,” Jed says. “This is Jeremy.”