He found himself clutching the paper, as though it were the only shred of whatever it was that would see him through this. Here he was, standing in his den, helping strangers turn his life inside out. The room seemed smaller for some reason, the ceiling dingier. Cobwebs hung like bells in the corners. A peculiar shame suffused him—not that of secrets exposed so much as that of recognition: his home was simply one of millions, little more than a shell, dressed to give the pathetic illusion of individuality.

Just another monkey, Neil would say, hiding in your hole.

'Hockey fan, huh?' Gerard said, glancing at a vintage Bruins jersey Thomas had pinned to the wall.

'You're not?'

'Too Canadian.'

'What's wrong with Canadians?'

'They're just Americans who think they're better than Americans.'

Thomas snorted. 'As opposed to what? Americans who thi—'

'You should know I almost shot your dog,' Gerard interrupted, gesturing to Bart on the fold-out couch. Thomas wasn't sure whether he'd ever met someone who oozed quite so much I-don't-give-a-shit. It was all an act, of course, the sign of someone preoccupied by dominance hierarchies. Classic Freudian compensation. Gerard so regularly communicated his power because he was so uncertain of it.

'Why would you shoot my dog?' Thomas asked.

'Too friendly. I never trust anything too friendly.'

'What? He hump your leg or something?'

Only Sam laughed. 'Big dog, Gerard. You'd be wearing diapers for weeks.'

Thomas found himself glancing at her in thanks, then looked ruefully at his sad old dog. Bart yawned, and then, as though to prove Sam right, rolled over and showed his belly—among other things.

'Bart,' Thomas said.

'Gawddamn,' Gerard said, his look appreciative. 'That dog deserves his own website.'

'Ignore him,' Sam said, shaking her head at her partner. 'Do you see anything, professor? Anything out of place?'

'Www,' Gerard cackled, 'dog-got-a-bone.' Evidently he found himself quite hilarious.

'I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to be looking for,' Thomas admitted. 'Are you?'

'I'm not sure about anything any more,' Sam replied.

'Have you been smoking crack?' Sam asked, nevertheless smiling. 'Nine inches in dog years,' she repeated to Thomas. Then, as though all bound in the same wires of tension, the three of them burst out laughing.

Madness, Thomas found himself thinking. Everyday life was madness.

'Bart!' Thomas cried. 'You're distracting the special agent!'

As though finally shamed by their laughter, Bart whined and rolled off the mattress. He trotted from the room.

Thomas wiped tears from his eyes.

'It's good to clean the pipes,' Sam said from his side. 'Especially after a day like today.'

'Remarkable animal,' Gerard said, shaking his head.

'C'mon,' Sam called, following Bart out the door, 'let's at least pretend we're looking for wild geese.'