He chose pork chops for dinner. Also asparagus. The checkout lines were long because only two aisles were open. While he was waiting, a family passed by—two kids, a girl of about twelve and a boy, perhaps fourteen. The father, gaze on the ground, hands in his pockets, had raven-black hair and seemed in a dark mood. The mother exuded a kind of energy and looked familiar to Owen. Then he realized he was seeing Melody in the waking world. Definitely middle-aged, but tall and solidly put together, mid-length hair going gray. Her face wasn’t in an open smile, but she seemed calm and content. She turned and said something to her husband, who laughed and put his arm around her. As they passed from his sight, Owen was surprised that he felt something nebulously akin to jealousy.

Later, after having burnt the pork chops beyond recognition and boiled the asparagus to mush, he ordered a pizza and took it next door. He knocked but there was no answer. The inside door was open, and although the screen was closed, he found it wasn’t latched. After calling “Hello” numerous times and getting no answer, he pushed open the door and entered. From the foyer, looking across the lavender living room, he saw Mrs. Hultz slouched in the chair. He wondered, with a shiver, if the vampire artist somehow found out she was a tangential but important part of the plan and had done her in. As he was bolting toward her chair, he heard her snore. She opened her eyes as he stood over her and said, “Is this a nightmare?”

“No,” he told her, “the nightmare is next door. Burnt pork chops and overcooked asparagus. I was making dinner for you. How about pizza?”

She pulled herself up in the chair and, blinking her eyes, said, “That sounds swell.”

Mrs. Hultz insisted on having hers with gin, but Owen had read somewhere that alcohol makes you sleep poorly, and he had to make it to the night world later. They sat in the living room with dinner trays set up in front of them. On the TV was an old black-and-white crime movie with Jack Palance called House of Numbers. He wanted to spring the question on her about babysitting before she had too much to drink.

“How are things going for you, Owen?” she asked.

“Well,” he said. “Better, but there’s only one problem.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“I have a date tonight but it’s contingent on whether I can find a babysitter for my girlfriend’s son.”

“A date?

“Yeah.”

She clapped and the bracelets on her wrists jangled. “What about the old woman who’s your neighbor?”

“I never thought of it,” he said.

“I’ve gotten so easy in my old age. Sold out for a pizza,” she said.

“You will?”