She imagined him walking down a sidewalk in England and all the other places he’d inhabited. She didn’t understand in that moment that his gait, his words, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at her when he clinked his glass against hers and said “to us”—everything that made Arthur unique was becoming indelibly etched in her mind.

She woke alone, startled by the mellow surroundings. Instead of staring up at cold ceiling tile and listening to the chatter of Bunnies waiting to take showers in the hallway, she heard birds and crickets. Old, yellowed curtains with pom-poms along the edges fluttered in the breeze. Knotted-pine beadboard covered the sloped ceiling. She looked around the room. A small, military-style sink was in the corner and Arthur’s clothes, mostly plaid shirts, hung off a simple metal bar that ran along one side of the room and his shoes, scuffed and worn, sat in a neat row on the floor below. The room smelled musky, of sleep and pine and a hint of coffee. Where was Arthur? His side of the bed was neatly made, and she was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before. Goldie had been slumbering against her legs but wiggled when she detected that Sherri had woken. She stood, her tail wagging like mad, and leaned down to wipe Sherri’s face with her tongue.

Arthur entered the room carrying a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and a bottle of aspirin. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m buried under an avalanche.”

His hair was messy, and his unshaven face was dark and shadowed. His features appeared sharp and angular, and his eyes were intense. “I didn’t mean to make your drink so strong. One minute you were telling me about watching full-length films about International Harvester at the cinema, and the next you were sound asleep.”

“I don’t even remember.” She shouldn’t have had so much to drink on an empty stomach. “I feel like I haven’t slept in months.”

He wore a soft old T-shirt, the kind men wear under dress shirts, and a pair of boxers. His legs were hairy and skinny but strong. “You know what time it is?” He pointed at the Westclox travel alarm on his bedside table, a clock her father could have sold to him. Maybe it had even come from his store.

“It’s almost noon?” Her mother would have disapproved. Idle hands do the devil’s work, she always said. “Where did you sleep?”

He pointed at the door beyond her. “I was on the sleeping porch.”

She reached out and fingered the hem of his boxers. She could see his erection, straight and true. “Why didn’t you join me?”