THE NEXT MORNING, Owen ate breakfast and drank his coffee at the kitchen table instead of stopping for a roll. He’d plotted out on his phone a new route that didn’t take him anywhere near the Busy Bee. There was one lone sparrow on the feeder. The weather was cool and breezy but the sun was bright. On any other morning, he’d have thought it a perfect day, but now he thought of nothing except for what had happened to him the night before. He’d obviously had an episode of lucid dreaming, but the look of the dream was sharper, as were his senses during it. It was a twin for real life, except he was some kind of spirit who could pass through the walls of houses and was truly conscious while doing it. He promised himself he would write down the experience as soon as he returned from work that evening. He put on the brown suit. As it grew time to leave, he felt an ice ball forming in his chest. He hoped not to speak to anybody about the death of Helen Roan.

At the first corner on the walk to town, he turned west onto another tree-lined street that looked like the one he lived on. There was something “skulking” about the fact he had changed his route. He felt like a thief in the night, and walked swiftly, keeping his eyes on the cracked concrete. There came a spot where he had to walk along a dirt road that led into the shadows beneath the cedars and blackjack oaks. It was as if all those things he didn’t want to think about might be hiding in ambush behind the trees and underbrush. He heard their murmuring, the distant gunshot, and caught, in a side glance, Helen darting into a thicket. He finally came to the old railroad tracks and crossed them. A few steps later and he was clear of the woods, walking across the field of weeds toward the library.