I had not slept well, after returning to the Inn from Jean Archer’s home. I had sat at the desk of my room, holding a pen over a sheet of paper, remembering Avrum’s stories and again trying to make notes for his memorial service. There were no words from the pen tip, only a memory sketch of Jean Archer’s painting of Amy, and in the background, on the same sheet, a small likeness of Avrum, sitting on his bench.

When I did sleep, it was a bothered, restless slumber, a dazed stupor. I dreamed—in one of those glimpse-dreams, a dream that is quick and leaping—of an afternoon when Avrum asked Amy and me to go to his room in his hotel and to find a book and to bring it to him.

“Amy doesn’t have to go,” I said hurriedly. “I’ll get it.”

“No, no, take her,” Avrum insisted. “Show her my music records.”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Are you ashamed of me going with you?” Amy asked.

I blushed. Ashamed? No, I thought. No. But I knew if anyone saw us going into the hotel together, there would be gossip in Arch’s and in the Inn.

“That’s not it,” I argued. “I just thought you could stay here and talk and I’d—”

Avrum shook his head. He handed his key to Amy. “Go, already. Take the young lady with you. I’m tired of talking. I need rest.” He blinked his eyes to fake fatigue.

“Come on,” Amy said boldly. “Don’t be so afraid of everything.”

Avrum smiled triumphantly.

If anyone saw us go into the hotel, no one ever said anything about it. I left the door to Avrum’s room open, but Amy closed it. Then she came to me and put her arms around me and kissed me.

“Amy, we can’t stay in here,” I told her.

She smiled playfully. “You don’t know what he just did, do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“He just gave us a chance to be together, without anybody spying on us.”

“Spying on us?” I said weakly. “Who?”

“Anyone. My parents. Carter. Especially Carter.”

“We can’t stay in here, not with the door closed.”

“We can for a minute,” she whispered. She held me, kissed me again, then she looked around the room. The room was not cluttered as it usually was. It was clean and orderly. A small vase of flowers was on Avrum’s bedside table. “I like it,” Amy said. “It’s cozy. I feel safe.”

“Well, I don’t,” I said. I took the book that Avrum wanted from his bookcase. “Let’s go.”

“One more kiss,” Amy purred.

“One,” I replied.

She kissed me passionately, a lingering, feeding kiss.

“All right,” she said. “Now we can go.”