He doesn’t want to talk about hair. “Do you remember, in 1984, how Winston Smith can only escape the camera in his apartment by slipping into a far corner of the living room and that he can’t stay there, out of sight, for very long or he will draw suspicion? That’s where we’re heading. A few years ago we thought, Oh cool, all the information in the world at our fingertips. How easy, how convenient! We can trace the movements of criminals, find our high school friends, do a little light stalking of old lovers, store our credit card information, get the results of our latest cholesterol test. We were so innocent and happy. We weren’t thinking about the reciprocity, that we were also giving ourselves over to whoever was interested. And I think some people don’t mind that, and most people mind a little but have no idea how to shut off the spigot and a few people, like me, are a lot bothered by it and are looking for ways to short-circuit the worst of the prying. And finding a place to be unwatched. A place bigger than the far corner of the living room that the camera can’t see.”

Cate sits down on the floor, next to Sailor, who pushes his long nose into her armpit.

“I understand your concerns, I really do. But I’m not sure anyone’s going to be able to stem the information flow. It’s worrisome, but so are the depletion of the oceans and the melting ice caps. The lunatic weather and how it’s being ignored for short-term profits. The perpetual wars. And in the middle of everything scary and tricky, I’m trying to live my one life. This is the place and time in the world where I came in, and sometimes there’s too much to deal with. And now that too much includes my post-traumatic flippage. I’m not in here with you that much, and I worry that you’re in here all the time, sinking under the weight of your massive knowledge. Come out with me. Get some fresh air. We can take Sailor, open the windows. Go down the drive, then swing back up. We can hit the drive-thru at McDonald’s and get him a cheeseburger. Half an hour, max. Does that sound manageable?”

“Okay,” he says. Then, “Not today, though.”

Maureen has given Cate the name of a therapist for Graham—expensive she says, but good. Cate raises this possibility. “It would just be someone for you to talk with. Just small air holes punched into the top of the box.”

“I talk to you every day. And Lucille Rae, and Ed.”

Cate doesn’t ask who Ed is. Why, really? He doesn’t mention Eleanor. She doesn’t know if this is good or bad.

“Two years ago you would have thought someone living your life was terribly depressed.”