It was an utter, ink-black darkness. Someone moved and bumped into something, and Roy got up from his chair with an impulse to somehow right the situation, and nearly lost his balance against the side of the bed. “Nobody move,” he heard Teresa say. “Roy …” But she didn’t follow this up with any instruction, and there was a long pause during which he felt that their lives had suddenly been switched off. Then he heard a fumbling sound and the hiss of a match, and a yellow glow flared up on the other side of the room.

“Any of the Robinsons got a candle?” Karen asked, her face animated by the wavering flame in front of her.

Teresa leaned forward, squinting. “What are you doing with matches?”

There was a knock on the door.

The match went out, and Karen lit another, and by its light Roy made his way to the door and opened it. The glare of a flashlight hit him in the face.

“Whoa,” said the buckethead from behind the flashlight. “How’s that for timing? I feel like the Red Cross.”

He was dressed in a yellow hooded rain-slicker and was standing between a pair of damp roll-aways. With his free hand, he dug inside the slicker and produced two votive candles. “Been carrying these around all afternoon, just in case. Looks like you could use them.” He handed them to Roy, who asked for Karen’s matches and then lit the candles, and helped roll the beds into the room. Standing just inside the door, the buckethead moved the beam of his flashlight around the room and made some comment about hoping none of them was nude.

“Thanks,” Roy said, stepping toward him, nodding his jaw in an effort to wave him out of the room. “We appreciate it.”

The man stepped backward, his flashlight beam still moving. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Thanks again,” Roy said.

“If you need more candles—”

“We’re fine.” Roy wide-stepped so that the man was forced back out onto the sidewalk, and shut the door. He turned around, and there they all were, his family, in the flickering light of the two votive candles like an old sepia portrait come to life. “Nobody talks to that man,” he said. “Nobody goes to the front desk, or has anything to do with him.”

As if he hadn’t just spoken—much less made a declaration—Teresa took Karen’s purple purse from her and began rifling through it. “Young lady, I would like to know what you’re doing with matches.”

“Mom,” Karen said. “Please.”

“Teresa,” Roy said, suddenly tired and desperate to narrow the focus, “let’s just set up the beds and call it a day, okay?”

“Have you been smoking?”

He thought for a second this question was meant for him. But Karen said, “Have I been smoking what?”

“Smoking what?” Teresa shot back.

“What’s on second,” Joe said. “Who’s on first.”