“What will people think,” Mom insisted, “if they see her walking around town when she’s supposed to be sick in bed?”

“I’ll be taking a constitutional,” Rose said. “Part of my recovery.”

“Don’t be so flippant,” Mom bristled.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t — ”

“Your mother’s worried about the truant officer,” Dad said lightly. He put his arm around Mom’s shoulders.

“Well,” she said, softening. “Don’t be conspicuous, if you can help it.”

“You do need to be careful, darlin’,” Dad said.

“I promise I won’t take any candy from strangers,” Rose said, knowing it was the worst flippancy, but she couldn’t help it.

“It’s no longer a case of strangers, that’s the trouble,” Dad went on. His words hit home, making Rose realize just how upside down the world had become. You could start fearing the people you knew and trusted, people who’d always been around.

Mom made her bundle up, becoming distant and cool again, as if the only way she could deal with the strain was to withdraw into her private world. Rose didn’t like this new Mom much. Mom had always been Mom, a secure person to count on, someone always there. My mother doesn’t like me anymore, Rose thought irrationally. Mom doesn’t like me getting messages from dead bodies. She wanted to talk about it. But how? Hey, Mom, am I giving you the creeps? Are you scared of me? How could you say things like that to your mother? Worse, how could you stand the answers?

For all her protestations of feeling fine, Rose found herself walking gingerly, like someone just released from the convalescent home. Like walking on eggs. The air was cold liquid going down her throat, and it shimmered in front of her eyes, turning everything into a slightly blurry photograph. This is my home, my town, this is Bethboro, she thought. This is where I have always felt safe. I refuse to believe that everyone is a potential killer. I refuse to believe in dark slimy secret places here.

No strange men in cars came by. The town seemed unusually quiet as if everyone might be home hiding under their beds.

She walked across the common toward Muriel’s studio. Wallace Romola was sitting on a bench, hunched in his dirty overcoat and shawl, rocking himself and making little sounds, looking the picture of a town loony.

When he saw Rose, he got up and came forward in the crablike way he sometimes used, a sidewise shuffle. He seemed purposeful though, as if he wanted to say something.

Rose stopped. “Hello, Wallace.”

“Mmmmm,” he said and nodded rapidly a few times, his usual greeting.