In the western sky the sun has spilled out at the horizon, a pale orange-red, slowly, then rapidly fading behind hills. Dusk.

Not an ideal time to be driving any distance. As Katie has warned you.

On Delahunt there appear to be no street lights. On the small side streets you aren’t sure.

A convenience store, at a corner. You could go inside, inquire about Howard Street.

But you hesitate, you drive past. And now a gas station—is it open? No? Seeing belatedly that it appears to be open though the interior is dimly lighted . . .

At last you catch sight of a street sign—Howard.

No wonder you’d missed it, the sign is turned sideways.

And now, driving slowly along Howard Street. Blocks of small woodframe houses. Howard Street is paved but badly potholed. Vehicles parked on both sides make driving difficult. Without lights house numbers are indistinct. And not all houses seem to have numbers. You are squinting to make out numerals on mailboxes. Beside doors. Forty-four? Eighty-eight?

It is late, you should have come earlier. Should have come yesterday. Still shaken from your brother’s assault, not thinking clearly. Not seeing clearly.

Beginning to feel panicked. No idea where you are.

But yes, you know where you are. Just no idea where Ethel Johnson’s house is.

Approaching a more populated neighborhood. The large scrubby yards have vanished. Brownstone row houses built close to the curb. Trashcans at the curb. Vehicles parked close together in the street.

You are disappointed, you have long imagined Hadrian Johnson’s house standing by itself. Ethel Johnson whom you’d seen on TV, for whom you’d felt great sympathy, living in a house of her own. With maybe a garden behind it—hollyhocks, wild climber roses, morning glories. Receiving the Valentines you’d sent, puzzled, but smiling, as she opens the oversized envelope, examines the Valentine so obviously handmade with care, tenderness . . .

Stopping the car at one of the rowhouses. But the numeral beside the door appears to be twenty-one, not twenty-nine . . .

You are startled by a knock on the window beside the passenger’s seat. You lower the window, a young woman peers inside, asks what sounds like Can I help you?

You tell her, you are looking for Ethel Johnson. Who lives, or used to live, at twenty-nine Howard.

The woman doesn’t hear you, you must repeat your question. Your voice is faint, hopeful. Apologetic.

In your white skin, confronting this stranger. Of course you are apologetic, it is a tic like your brother ending each remark with OK.

Your jaw has begun to ache, speaking in a normal voice is painful. Your eyes are aching too, the vision in both eyes has blurred.

The young woman can’t help you, it seems. Doesn’t seem to know where twenty-nine Howard Street might be, unless she hasn’t heard you clearly.