He started down the hallway and saw that some of the doors stood open, like in a brothel, not that he’d had any direct experience of brothels, just that he’d read novels and seen movies and that was the way it was, the doors open so the customers could browse and the girls inside (they were always girls and they were always gorgeous with their sprayed-up hair and cover-girl faces and great bleeding eyes) could lure them in. The first room stood empty or at least that was how it appeared, and no, he didn’t want to turn the light on because if anyone was in there he’d feel like a voyeur—but then they were all brothers and sisters, weren’t they? He thought of Dick then, Dick and his friend Martin. But where was Dick? He’d seen him by the fire, hadn’t he? Or no, maybe he hadn’t—everything was a bit out of focus because he’d had too much drink. Which was all because of Joanie. And Lori. And where was she?

There was somebody in the room across the hall, a candle flickering, shadows there, and when he paused in the doorway, a woman’s voice called out to him—“Fitz? Is that you?”—and it took him a moment to realize it was Paulette and that she was alone and lying there on a mattress, advertising her availability, and in the next moment he was thinking of Rick and where he might be, which, inevitably, made him think of Lori.

“I was just—” he said, and broke off. “Where is everybody?”

Paulette—she was a brunette, with a mass of kinky hair and a dark trace of it under her arms too—was someone he hadn’t really thought of in this particular connection. She’d raise her arms on the beach in Zihuatanejo or when she was wearing a halter top in summer and he’d catch a glimpse of the private hair there and it stirred him, absolutely, he had to admit, but she wasn’t really his type. She was Rick’s wife, that was all. But then, if you followed the logic, she was everybody’s wife. She said, “I just thought I’d try this . . . tonight. Seemed like a good idea, what do you think?”

He was leaning against the doorframe. It wasn’t just his legs that felt heavy—it was his torso too, his arms, his shoulders, his head. He wanted another drink. He didn’t want another drink. “Are you tripping?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Some of us just felt like it after the meeting, you know—Royce, Lori, Tim—but not Rick. Rick’s downstairs. He’s already asleep.” Her face was washed of expression in the candlelight. “It’s just coming on,” she murmured. “You?”