He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me tenderly. “Avrum, he wants to make himself young again. He wants to be young so he can go to Amelita Galli-Curci and tell her that he loves her. That is what he is doing with you—making himself young again. Do you not see it? He wants you to be him and he wants Amy, your Amy, to be Amelita Galli-Curci. She is lovely, yes, but she is not Amelita Galli-Curci. If you make her that, you will suffer. Always, you will suffer.” He squeezed my shoulders with his strong hands. “Don’t be such a dummkopf.”

The book that Sol Walkman held was Avrum’s book. I recognized it immediately. It had Avrum’s name, scrawled by his hand, on the title page.

Sol had no explanation for it. “It must have been delivered to the front desk, or left there by someone. The receptionist brought it to me. She said she didn’t see anyone leave it.”

A typewritten note was in the envelope that had been slipped inside the book. For Avrum Feldman’s service. Please see the marked page.

The marked page was “There Was a Child Went Forth.”

“Do you know what it means?” asked Sol.

“Yes, and no,” I answered. “I know about the poem. I know it was Avrum’s favorite, but I have no idea who left the book. The last time I saw it, it was among his possessions.”

Sol stroked his chin with his fingers. “Maybe one of the residents did it. They could have taken it when they destroyed his room.”

I asked if any of them had a typewriter.

Sol shook his head. “No. I would know that.”

“Could they have used one of the typewriters in the office?”

“Doubtful,” Sol answered. “Someone’s almost always around. Are you sure he had the book?”

“The last time I was with him, last October, he had it,” I said. “It was one of his special possessions. He loved Whitman.”

“He had good taste. I like that poem myself. Always have. Will you use it today?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. It was an honest answer.

“Do you need anything?” Sol asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’re going to have a good crowd,” Sol said. “There’s nothing mandatory about it, but I think everybody will be there, and there’s at least one television station covering it.”

I asked what he had done with Sammy’s sculpture.

Sol smiled. “It’s in a corner,” he said easily. “Out of harm’s way, so to speak. I wouldn’t want anyone fooling with it. It could topple and hurt one of those old people.”

“Good thinking.”

I was glad I had been wrong about Sol Walkman. He was a good man in a job where death always won.