I feel better after that. When I go back in the living room I am relieved to see that my eyes are back to normal. I am able to curl up on the orange rug and have a little nap which to be honest I gd deserve, after all I’ve been through.

DEE

Something gives under her feet with a crack. There are bright shards among the leaves and dirt that cover the steps. It’s as if a whole box of Christmas tree ornaments has shattered everywhere. It adds a hectic edge of unreality.

Dee wonders if she’ll know, right away, when she sees him. Surely the truth will come off his flesh like a scent.

She rings the doorbell thirty or forty times. She sees movement at the window but there’s no answer, and she wonders if she should leave. Part of her sags with relief at the thought. But she doesn’t think she can put herself through all this again. Get it done, Dee Dee. Her father’s voice in her head. Their grim credo during that long half-year when it was just them, alone. Get through it, get it done; no matter how unpleasant, however hard your heart pounds in the night, whatever dreams may come. Get it done. She straightens her spine a little, and that moment she hears a shuffling within the house. A small high noise—a cat, maybe? Then heavier sounds, a large body making impressions on stairs, walls, boards.

Three different locks click and the door opens a crack. A bleary brown eye presents itself, framed by a pale face which sprouts hair. His beard is red, much brighter than the lank brown strand that falls over his brow—the shade is attractive, it gives him a piratical, almost jaunty air.

“Hi,” she says.

“What is it?” His voice is higher than she expected.

“I’m your new neighbor. Dee. I wanted to say—well, hi, and I brought you some pie.” She winces and resists the urge to mention that she’s a poet, but doesn’t know it. Instead she holds out the box containing the out-of-season pumpkin pie she bought at the drugstore. The box has dust on it, she now sees.

“Pie,” he says. A pale hand snakes out and takes the pie. For a moment Dee expects his skin to sizzle in the sunlight. She doesn’t let go of the moist cardboard, and for a moment they are caught in a gentle tug of war.

“I’m so sorry to bother you with this,” she says. “But my water doesn’t get switched on until this afternoon. Could I possibly use your bathroom? It was a long drive.”

The eye blinks. “It’s not convenient right now.”