I tiptoed to the kitchen door and peered in at a small wooden table and four mismatched chairs. A Pyrex percolator sat on the stove, a low blue flame under it. The clear glass showed a brew as dark as bitter-sweet chocolate. The doors to all the kitchen cabinets stood open, and many shelves were bare. Stacey was obviously in the process of wrapping and packing glassware and dishes into assorted cardboard boxes. A heavy ream of plain newsprint lay on the counter, wide sheets that must have measured three feet by four. He was clearly dismantling his house, preparing his possessions for shipping to an unknown location.

"See anything you like, it's yours. I got no use for this stuff," Stacey said, suddenly behind me.

I turned. "How's your back?"

Stacey made a face. "So-so. I've been sucking down Tylenol and that helps."

"You've been busy. Are you moving?"

"Not exactly. Let's say, I may be going away and wanted to be prepared." Today his watch cap was navy blue. With his bleached brows and his long, weathered face, he looked like a farmer standing in a fallow field. He wore soft, stone-washed jeans, a pale blue sweatshirt, and tan sheepskin boots.

"You own this place?"

"Rent. I've been here for years."

"You're organized."

"I'm getting there. I don't want to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. Con's the one who'll come in." The unspoken phrase after I'm dead hung in the air between us.

"Con told me they were trying new drugs." Stacey shrugged. "Clinical trials. An experimental cocktail designed for people with nothing left to lose. Percentages aren't good, but I figure, what the hell, it might help someone else. Some survive. That's what the bell curve's all about. I just think it's foolish to assume I'm one."

Con Dolan knocked at the front door and then let himself in, appearing half a second later in the kitchen doorway. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and a smaller white bag in the other. "What are you two up to?"

Stacey put his hands in his pockets and shrugged casually. "We're talking about running away together. She's arguing for San Francisco so we can cross the Golden Gate Bridge. I'm holding out for Vegas and topless dancing girls. We were just about to toss a coin when you came in." Stacey moved toward the stove, talking to me over his shoulder. "You want coffee? I'm out of milk."

"Black suits me fine."

"Con?"

Dolan held up a white sack spotted with grease. "Doughnuts."

"Good dang deal," Stacey said. "We'll retire to the parlor and figure out what's what."