She leapt to a position of safety at the foot of the bed. “Stay the fuck away from me!” She threw her shoes at him.

Arik grabbed his clothes. He climbed out the window into the moonlit night. She heard his ragged breathing and his footsteps in the grass recede.

Insistent knocking now on her door. “Baby, who make a big noise?”

“Nothing! Nobody.”

Just before midnight, Mr. Z called. Rosemary’s hands were trembling. A chopper was hovering over the house just then, rattling all the glass panes and her bones. Perhaps the cops had seen Arik clutching his eyeball on the street.

“What’s that racket? Want me to call back tomorrow?”

“No, don’t. I’m sorry—it’s just a chopper. Probably looking for evildoers.”

“Make sure you stay hidden then. You’re not going to like prison.”

She laughed, a little stiffly.

“Well, Rose?” His voice was calm, but she could hear the edge in it. “What did you want to talk about?”

“My mother’s bought plane tickets. I may not be here for New Year’s.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. You’ll be missed.” Was that all he could say?

“And I want to talk to you about Arik . . .”

“Spare me, please. I’m not Oprah.”

She tried again. “Mr. Z, I know I’ve been a terrible friend to you. And I want you to know that I’m really sorry. For everything.” She took a deep breath. “You know, about that play that you wrote? I still want to do it, if that’s possible.”

A long pause.

“Go to sleep,” he finally said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I just . . . I need to see you again.”

“You will. Now, go to sleep, little girl. Go to sleep.” His voice gained a soothing lilt. “And if you can’t sleep, take one of those Ambiens I gave to you the other day. If one doesn’t work, two should do the trick.”

They hung up. A few seconds later, a text from him appeared on her phone:

@};--

His electric rose was the most romantic, most beautiful gift she’d ever received. The semicolon thorn seemed to be winking at her, telling her it meant no harm and was only there for verisimilitude. Unlike the wavering affection of boys, this rose would never fade and never wilt. It could be saved in her Inbox forever. With this thought, she drifted off to sleep.

Mr. Z was chanting in an exaggerated brogue:

How well I know the fountain, filling, running,

although it is the night.

That eternal fountain hidden away,

I know its haven and its secrecy,

although it is the night . . .

Rosemary climbed into the Nissan Maxima. Her nose was pink from the sudden warmth of his car. She removed her mittens and rested them demurely on her lap, side by side like angel wings.

“Any of this ring a bell to you?” he asked, of his recitation.