There was something unreal about his house as it floated nearer around the curve. In the final days of their marriage, it had been a curious image of dread, a white-sided container filled with shouts and recriminations, and the long silences that cramp your gut. It had occurred to him that the real tragedy of marital breakdown was not so much the loss of love as the loss of place. 'Who are you?' he used to cry at Nora. It was one of the few refrains he meant genuinely, at least once the need to score points had climbed into the driver's seat. 'No. Really. Who are you?'

It began as an entreaty, quickly became an accusation, then inevitably morphed into its most catastrophic implication: 'What are you doing here?'

Here. My home.

To drift across that final, fatal line was to be locked in a house with a stranger. Or even worse, to become that stranger.

He could remember driving back the evening after she had moved out, rallying himself with thoughts of how peaceful it would be, how nice to finally have his home back. Kick back and crank the stereo. But when he opened the door, the bachelor bravado had dropped through the soles of his feet—of course. For a time he simply sat on the living room floor, as vacant as the rooms about him, listening to the eternal hum of the fridge. He remembered shouting at the kids to pipe down, even though they were gone. He had cried after that, long and hard.

Home. Life to the pale of property lines.

He had struggled hard to build something new, another place. It was partly why stupid things like plants or appliances could strike him with teary-eyed pride. He had worked so hard.

And now this.

He slammed the car into park, fairly ran across the lawn.

'Neil!' he shouted as he burst through the doorway. He hadn't really expected anyone to answer: Neil's minivan was gone.

Bartender growled and yawned, then trundled over to him, tail flapping. An old dog's greeting.

'Uncle Cass is gone, Bart,' Thomas said softly. He peered across the living room gloom, at the showroom tidiness. The smell of spilled whiskey bruised the air.

'Uncle Cass has fled the scene.'

He stood motionless next to the sofa, the static in his head roaring loud, thoughts and images in parallel cascades, as though boundaries between times and channels had broken down. Cynthia Powski, as slick as seals, moaning. The Ocean Voice mentioning an argument. Neil saying, As easy as flicking the switch…

The Ocean Voice mentioning an argument…

It can't be. No way.