When she came to the blue cottage at the top of Mount Curve, she dialed Mr. Z on her cell. He took forever to pick up. Three rings, four . . . The curtains were drawn and she couldn’t see a thing. Warm lamplight upstairs and downstairs. In one upstairs window, an erratic flicker—somebody was watching TV. Five rings. Two cars were in the drive, neither of them his but he’d probably parked the Nissan inside the garage, given how fastidious he was about his things. The stupid bull fucking terrier swaggered outside the front door, tethered, watching her. Six. Just when she thought his voicemail prompt would trigger, he answered, his voice crushed and slurry, like he’d been asleep.

“What’s up?”

“Do you have time to talk?”

“It’s really kind of late, you know.”

“I’m outside.”

“What?”

“I’m standing outside your house. Right now.”

She waited for him to look out. Maybe wave. Not even a flutter in the curtains.

“You’re on Mount Curve?”

“Yeah. I really need to talk to you.”

“You know it’s not possible . . .”

Rosemary waited for him to state a reason.

Instead: “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? But I’m right outside your house now.” She waited. “Please, I won’t take much of your time.”

She heard him sigh. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said something to somebody, probably his wife. Footsteps, a door opening and closing. When he came back, his voice was even quieter: “Listen. Go home. I’ll call you in a while.”

“You promise?”

“You know, really, you’re being a little . . .” He sighed again. “Yes. I promise.”

She stood in the dark for another five minutes after hanging up, waiting to see if Mr. Z would finally peek out of the window. Or if his Indian wife would step into the path of some light and have her silhouette cast against the drapes. Nothing. A patrol car cruised by, its headlights momentarily blinding her. It slowed but didn’t stop and she heard the Christmas carol about the Little Drummer Boy drifting out its open window. Pa-rum-pum pum-pum. She got back on the bicycle and noticed for the first time that Mira had attached a reflective sign at the back of the seat: don’t like my driving? call 1-800-eat-shit.

As soon as she cycled away, the demon dog in the yard started yelping like a crazed lover who missed her and wanted her back in his life right now.

When she got home, Arik was in her room. He sat on her bed, wearing only underwear.

Not an apparition. The window, he got in through the window.

She kept the lights out. The darkness took from them the terror of eye contact.

“I miss being inside of you, Rose.”

She kept quiet.