I trudge through the grass as though swimming in gelatin—trying to eavesdrop or make sense of what I saw—and still I’m haunted by a maxim that made the rounds back in medical school: when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. The most obvious, reasonable diagnosis is the best place to start. I don’t want to encourage my first instinct, but it would be irresponsible to deny it. The most obvious, reasonable conclusion I first drew is that Elizabeth got all prettied up and snuck over to visit Nick when she thought I was gone, because for whatever reason, Nick has an effect on her. She likes his attention. He likes hers. My stomach turns.

So that’s my first impression, but there’s a whole swarm of sensible alternatives. It’s possible, more likely even, that Nick needed directions or advice or assistance with some domestic thing, and I should favor these possibilities, as I’d much prefer to see my wife for the woman I love and trust and value unequivocally than to see her as the other thing. We vowed to protect each other, to put each other first, to honor each other, and Elizabeth is principled and worthy of me, so why would I make her my enemy? She’s getting attention from a boy who doesn’t know better. Nick’s foolishness is not my Lizzie’s fault.

On my drive to work, I decide that my first instincts were zebras after all. I went to bed angry. I woke up late. By the time I get to the office, my anxiety has faded. There are no stampedes, just a bad night’s sleep.

“Morning, Doctor,” Simone says when I walk in the door. She stifles a knowing smile, the type born of poorly kept secrets.

“Morning.”

“You see the paper yet? No? Never read your own press, huh?”

“Something like that.” The last time I got local press, it was for an architecture thing by that uppity historian who published images of our widow’s walk on the front page, making our roof look like a charming gazebo aimed toward the sea—a proper pagoda—rather than a pile of rotting wood and peeling paint. I have a theory that all that hoopla in the press was orchestrated just to shame me into renovating. I’d been talking to the HOA about razing the roof. Now I’m stuck with an antique exterior. So no, I don’t read my own press anymore.

Simone hands me my Americano and pops out of her swivel chair so she can follow me to the staff lounge.

“They say anything nice?” I ask.

“See for yourself.” On the large round table in the middle of the room, a dramatic bouquet spills out like a fountain: tiger lilies, alstroemeria, eucalyptus, lisianthus.

“Strange arrangement,” I say.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

“Big enough. Who’s it from?”

Simone shrugs. “No card.”

“When was it delivered?”