The day was blustery, stung with the cold. There were already three cars in the driveway, faces watching her expectantly from behind the silvered windows as she darted across the dead grass, the wind in her face, pellets of snow rattling off the jacket—which must have been Nancy’s, she realized, too tight at the waist and short in the sleeves—and came up to the man at the window, who swung round on her, startled, and said, “Sorry, I just wanted to know where we’re supposed to park?”

She held a finger to her lips.

He looked puzzled. “Is this the right place? This is where the seminar’s supposed to be, isn’t it?”

She nodded and handed him one of the sheets of paper, which fluttered in the wind as he tried to make it out. What it said, under the heading Awareness was that silence would be required among the participants for the first twelve hours, as a way of breaking set and eliminating role-playing. And then—Tim had dictated this to her—it got more explicit: No one here is eager to play the game of “you” or the game of “guest” with you. There will be little interest manifested in your thoughts, opinions, accomplishments, nor in the history and complexity of your personality. You will find total acceptance but little verbal reassurance. “Good” is what raises the ecstasy count of all persons present and “bad” is what lowers the ecstasy count.

The wind snatched away his breath. Hard dry pellets of snow batted at him, whitened the brim of his hat. He read as if it were a Herculean labor, the first test in a long string of them. Finally he looked up at her out of eyes the color of his hat and she realized he was good-looking, solidly built, handsome in the way of the detectives in the old films. And eager too, she could see that. He wanted enlightenment just as she did, just as they all did.

“Right,” he said, handing her back the flyer, “but where do I park?”