My mouth opened to deliver the bad news, and in my mind I had already rehearsed what I would say, but no words came out. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, and I pictured her pressing the receiver to her ear, eager for the news that would make her life worthwhile again.

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," I heard myself say. The words sounded strange, as if spoken with another man's voice. "But I'm still working on it."

"Oh. I see." Her disappointment was palpable, and I could scarcely imagine what her reaction would have been had I had the guts to tell her the truth. She also sounded confused, and I could well understand why. I'd told her I would call in two weeks, sooner if I found out anything. Then I had called sooner, but said I had nothing to report. I wished I'd never picked up the phone and wanted to get off the line as fast as possible.

"Anyway. That's what I called to say. I'll call again next week. I hope to have something by then."

I said goodbye and ended the call. Laying down the receiver, I felt like the world's biggest coward. Some hero you are, I thought.

I must have been staring into space, because the bartender snapped his fingers before my eyes. "You okay? Hey, mister, can you hear me?"

I blinked. "Yes. Just daydreaming."

"Yeah. That happens," he said, giving a friendly chuckle. "Hope you were someplace nice. And not so hot."

I forced a smile on my face and told him to get me a beer.

I took the beer to a vacant table and nursed it for the next ten minutes. What had I gained by lying to Henrietta? What good had it done? Her son was still dead, and I would still need to inform her of that fact. Only a quarter of the beer remained when the answer came to me. On some level, I must have known it from the moment I found myself unable to tell her the truth.

I went back to the phone and dialed a number from memory.

"Hello, Reuben," I said when the familiar, warm voice came over the line.

"Adam, how are you?"

I told him I was fine and inquired after himself, his wife, Gila, and his four children.

"Everyone's doing well. Both the goddess and the angels." He laughed at his own description of his wife and children. "You should drop by, the children would love to see you. It's been some time since you last saw them."

A couple of months, I thought, recalling the visit with excruciating clarity. I did not wish to tell Reuben how his children—his lovely, beautiful children—had reminded me of my own.

"Maybe soon," I said, knowing it was likely a lie. "The reason I called is I need a favor."

"If I can help, Adam, you know I will."