In the dark I heard Gerry Van Gelder’s deep voice say, “Is that you?”

The porch light switched on, a white globe in the night.

“It’s me,” I said.

I heard the sound of bolts unlocking, and then the door opened to reveal a frowning, enrobed Gerry Van Gelder, peering through glasses. He looked at me and said, “Do you know what time it is?”

Really, Gerry, I thought. These people and their obsession with time. If only I could have shown him how it felt—life, death—but I held back; I refrained. To be inside the house first would be best.

“I don’t,” I said. “But it must be late.”

“Yes,” said Gerry. “It is late.”

“Who is that?” came Ann’s voice from the darkened hall. “Oh gosh, it’s you,” she said.

Gerry looked at me, his arms crossed.

“Could I come in?” I said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Something wrong with your house?” said Gerry.

“Oh, let him in, Gerry,” said Ann. “He’ll let us know soon enough.”

Gerry looked at me, expressionless, and then held the door open so I could pass.

“Thank you,” I said, as he re-bolted the door. “I must be very late.”

“Late for what?” Gerry asked.

“Okay, Gerry,” said Ann, appearing in the hallway in her own bathrobe and white socks. “That’s enough.

“Come on,” she said to me. “I’ll make you a plate.”

She motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and peered inside.

“I made chicken,” she said, frowning into the light. “We could heat it up, but it might actually be better cold…” She trailed off, because she was looking at me more closely now, under the bright kitchen light. She drew her breath in with a hiss.

“Where have you been?”

Somewhere close by a telephone was ringing.

“Are you kidding?” said Gerry under his breath. “Who is calling at this time of night?”

Ann was still looking at me with the same concerned expression, but when I gave her no encouragement she went back to the refrigerator and opened the door. I lost interest in the little scene for a time, and when I returned there was a plate of chicken and roasted potatoes on the counter in front of me, and Gerry was saying, “Yes, thank you,” and hanging up the phone.

“Who was it?” Ann asked.

The look on Gerry’s face was strange. He was moving slowly now, back toward the kitchen, as if he wanted to figure something out before arriving. He cut a dumpy and unappealing figure in his bathrobe, his long legs pale and spindly beneath its hem.

“Well,” he said, hesitating. He looked at me, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he said to Ann, “Stephanie isn’t coming back until tomorrow, is she?”

“No,” said Ann. “What? Who was that on the phone?”