It was four o’clock in the morning. Summer was long gone. It had been an unseasonably warm fall. Apocalyptic was a word that often came up in conversation while merely discussing the weather. Winter was coming, and surely these habitual walks would stop, though for now, while unable to sleep, she hit the pavement. She was often out in the middle of the night. It was mid-November. She was not sleeping with Alex the bartender or anyone aside from her husband. What to send Sylvie for Christmas and Hanukkah? Should she send two separate presents? Matthew mentioned he’d sent another check to their new address in Jackson Heights, Queens. A casting director had hired Arman for a national gig. Kiki had texted a photo of Sylvie on Halloween, dressed up as a fox.

Sarah walked not toward the park but through the neighborhoods: down the hill, across the canal to the storage facility, where she considered visiting their unit. It was open 24-7. So good to know, she remembered joking with Matthew when they first rented the space. Can there be a sadder time than the middle of the night to deal with one’s possessions? She imagined nodding to the receptionist, taking the elevator, walking the fluorescent-lit corridor. She could sit on the cold and dusty floor with the plastic tubs of stuffed animals and photos and irrelevant documents. She could cry over carefully folded baby clothes. Always an option. She could cry over the fact that she might never have grandchildren. Or that if she did have grandchildren, she wouldn’t know them. But she kept walking all the way to the waterfront, to the pier with its scrabbly rocks that seemed to beckon a climb.