Her voice was small, ruminative. “I don’t want to be beholden.”

“So don’t be. We can pay our own way.” He was standing at the sink, sipping coffee, his headache dissolving on the ascent of the caffeine. “Though even at fourteen-forty a day it’d be a stretch, I admit it—but we’ll save on rent. And groceries. And what, utilities?”

She shrugged. Gave him a smile. Then she deliberately set the fork down across the plate as if eggs didn’t matter anymore or breakfast either or work or anything else. “So maybe being beholden isn’t so bad after all, is that what you’re saying? And Tim did say it was a scholarship, right?” She paused, her lips pursed round the tip of her tongue as she worked out the fine gradations of the ethics involved. “A scholarship’s different,” she said. “It’s legitimate. It’s something you earn—and you’ve earned it, right?”

“Oh, sí,” he said. “Sí, sí, señora. Claro que sí.”

As the spring semester drew to a close, Tim was in constant motion, teaching, advising, floating a prospectus for the International Federation for Internal Freedom and planning for the summer institute in Zihuatanejo, all the while continuing to conduct weekly sessions at the house on Homer Street, which was looking the worse for wear, it seemed, every time Fitz and Joanie stepped through the door. Fanchon, apparently, wasn’t much of a housekeeper, nor was Hollingshead or Ken or anyone else living there aside from Dick, who did his best to bring order to chaos, but with the traffic and the parties and so many people seeking internal freedom at the same time, it was a thankless task. Suzie helped. She was dutiful, driven, trying her best to please her father and be accommodating to the adults, and she always seemed to be trooping through one room or another with a private smile and a tray of dirty dishes and glasses. Jackie stayed out of sight, appearing only to gaze into the refrigerator from time to time or make his way through the torrent of pizza that poured into the house most nights. He got a dog—or Tim got him a dog—a mutt with floppy ears and Airedale whiskers that just seemed to add to the confusion. It was always darting between somebody’s legs and it didn’t seem especially interested in doing its business out on the lawn when there were so many much more convenient carpets spread throughout the house.

Tim’s plan was to fly down to Zihuatanejo a week in advance of everybody else by way of getting established and making arrangements with the staff, who would stay on through the summer, though the manager himself—the admirable Swiss—would be gone, taking a busman’s holiday at an inn in Gstaad or some such place. One morning, a few days before Tim was set to leave, Fitz came in to find a note from him in his departmental box. On a sheet of notepaper, folded once, Tim had scrawled, Pls come to my office, 4:30, need ask favor, and then added, in a looping hand, underlined twice, Mexico.