Tommy—he wasn’t a bad kid, wasn’t a kid who meant anybody harm—was watching his face for clues, but there were no clues to give up, only facts, and the facts were that he’d had his arm around Lori, the teenager, who’d just rebuffed him as if they barely knew each other, as if they hadn’t gone deeper together than any couple in human history, and he was feeling poisonous. Tommy said, “Why don’t you tell me about it, Fitz—tell us.”

He was on his feet now and Lori was way down there below him, shrinking till she might have been a thousand miles away. “It’s a long story,” he said, looking not at her but at Tommy, only Tommy, “and it has a lot of cold tits in it. And you know what else? Cold cunts. Cold cunts too.”

It was around that time—late February, early March—that he was pulled over by the village police for no apparent reason. He was coming back from Beacon, of all places, where he’d gone to have a cup of coffee with Dave Jacobs, principal of his old school, by way of catching up. He was the one who’d reestablished the connection, calling Dave at home one night and wondering if he might buy him a cup of coffee—or a drink, would he rather go out for a drink? Dave had seemed surprised to hear from him, but not unfriendly, just the opposite. “It’s good to hear your voice, Fitz. We figured it’d be a long time before we heard from you again—how’s Harvard treating you?” He told him Harvard was treating him great, but did he know he’d moved to Millbrook? To finish up his thesis? Yeah, Millbrook, what a coincidence, huh?

They met after school the next day, at a diner Fitz used to frequent in the old days of toil and trouble—toil and boredom, actually—and nothing had changed. The plasticized menus might have been a little grimier, a little more creased and dog-eared, but the offerings, from ham and eggs with a side of toast or pancakes (Breakfast Served All Day!) to the blue-plate special (Chicken Parmesan with choice of spaghetti or mashed) and the allegedly homemade pies, were the same as they’d always been, as were the prices and the specials listed on the chalkboard behind the counter. Dave was the same too, early fifties, crew cut patched with gray, suit, tie, buffed black shoes the size of cement blocks. They exchanged pleasantries, ran down some of the gossip on former colleagues Fitz barely remembered, even tried out the weather for a bit, till finally, scraping up the remnants of a slice of coconut cream pie with the edge of his fork, Dave asked, “So to what do I owe the honor?”

Fitz had ducked his head, grinned. “You could always read me, Dave.”