One figure knocked the hostage over like a bowling pin; another kept the hostage’s head on the floor. Another had the knife. It was not large enough for the task. When Will saw it, he felt emptied, no one location. It was his stomach, his head, both heels, the fingers overweighted, his upper chest a sick, weak sail. It began—the sawing motion too slow, one figure immobilizing the hostage’s body, hands of a second figure over the dying man’s eyes, hand of another figure over the dying mouth, from which a sound came unlike any sound except the sound that came from this way of killing. Finally, the head lurched free of the body, and the figure with the knife took it by the hair and held it in the air. His partners began chanting. The figure placed the dead head on the prone body, but the head would not stay upright. The figure molded the body so it would better cradle its head. He turned the head this way, then, wanting the eyes, open, to face the camera, he made his final correction. The cameraman zoomed in and rested there.

Will’s jaw was stuck. He put his tongue against his locked molars. He had ground top and bottom teeth into each other. He opened the hinge of his jaw slowly. His tongue moved across the top back teeth. Were the edges sharper, or was he imagining it? He put a finger and a thumb in his mouth and tugged on a tooth. No slippage—it was anchored and stable. He looked around the room. It was still there, as he had left it. The boxes stacked against the wall, the sound of others working, computer keys like toy wings flapping. His eyes were gelid. Could anyone see him like this? He felt skinned. He swiveled to see. There was no one.

Don found Mabel in the garden at three in the morning. She smelled sober. She was breathing. He couldn’t feel her pulse. The only thing to think was that she was alive, her pulse shallow, or that he just couldn’t find her pulse. But then she revived. Sat up, though she didn’t want to stand. Weak pulse, he said to the dispatcher. Hasn’t been drinking. Yes, she’s breathing. Sir, the dispatcher advised, I believe your wife fainted. This is not, strictly speaking, an emergency, and I will have to recommend to you at this time that you convey her to the nearest emergency room or consult your personal physician during regular hours.

So Don carried Mabel to their Volvo. He drove to Georgetown Hospital, about six blocks. He parked the car, and they walked slowed into the emergency room, where they waited their turn. When the nurse asked his name and he said, “Don Grady,” she laughed, but only a little. “Right. And I’m Queen Latifah.”

She looked at his health-insurance card.

She asked for his license.