The living room was small but organized. Paperbacks were lined up perfectly on the bookshelf. The CDs were housed in wicker CD towers. He had a gray leather couch, and one of those rattan half-shell chairs a lot of people bought in the seventies and which had been populating thrift stores ever since. There was a deck of Uno cards on the glass coffee table. Besides the Star Wars figures, it was the only other sign of a kid in the room.

She didn’t see Heil.

The man stooped and started gathering up the action figures. “I think the storm runoff put pressure on the water main,” he said. “Your friend’s downstairs. He was helping me move a few things.”

Susan’s shoulders relaxed a little.

He dropped the action figures in a shoe box and put the shoe box on the coffee table next to the Uno deck. “You can come in,” he said. “Take a seat. I’ll give him a shout.”

She started to take off her boots.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve already tracked muck all over the rug. I have to get a steam cleaner in here anyway. Can I take your coat?”

“Um, sure,” Susan said. She could feel rivulets of water running down her neck and between her breasts. She peeled off the wet vinyl slicker and held it out, and he hung it on a hanger in a closet by the door. Susan caught a glimpse of the black jacket Heil had been wearing on the hanger next to it.

“You’re drenched,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll get you a towel.”

She stood dripping on the mat while he disappeared down the hall, presumably to the bathroom.

She was chilled now that she was inside. Her black jeans stuck to her skin, gathering too tightly in all the crevices. When she got home, she was taking a bubble bath.

A door creaked open. There followed the sound of shuffling downstairs, and then a muffled voice. Good. He was telling Heil she was here. He’d be up in a minute, and they could go. If he wanted to be a Good Samaritan he could come back after he took her home.

She looked around the room some more. He had a framed Wyland poster above the couch—a glowing moon rising over a pod of orcas. There was a shooting star in the purple and pink sky. White cursive script ran across the poster below the image.

Susan inched forward to read it. It was a quote from the artist.

THE SEA IS FILLED WITH LIGHT AND CONSCIOUSNESS.

Gag me, she thought.

“Here you go,” the man said, tossing her a thick magenta towel.

She caught it and dried her face, and then squeezed a tablespoon of water from her hair. “Thanks,” she said. She looked behind him, but he was alone. “Did you tell Heil I was here?”