I drove home, a foil-wrapped pair of rolls and a Tupperware of cold salmon beside me in the passenger seat. I brushed my teeth, crawled into bed, switched on the lamp, and reached for my Swedish police novel, but could not quite bring myself to open it. I considered the snowscape on its cover with regret, then put it aside. As I lay in bed waiting for sleep, I had the nagging feeling that I had forgotten something, something of importance. Whatever it was had happened at the Van Gelders’, but when I tried to think of all that had occurred there, I could recall nothing of interest. It was all muddled now—Gerry’s routine about his trip to North Dakota, the slideshow in the living room, Ann Van Gelder talking about her haircut—I could no longer remember what fragment of conversation went with which part. Even this I cannot do, I thought with disgust. And what was more, I felt that recently I had been finding myself in this position more and more, with the unwelcome feeling that I had missed something crucial.

What was it my horoscope had said? Now you find yourself uniquely positioned to set things in motion. Not likely! I thought. I was more like that black bird I had seen on the lawn that morning through the bay window, scratching and scratching, but in search of what?

And now! I thought. Now I have successfully completed a metaphor: myself as bird.

Very useful! I thought bitterly. A big advance in the investigation.

Through the crack in my bedroom window I could hear the crickets’ two-note chirp and, farther away, the roll and crash of the sea.

Death is just the other side of life, I thought. It follows life just as one wave follows the next. And then I thought, How ridiculous, these are like sentiments written on bookmarks; I must be exhausted. I closed my eyes and, almost immediately, fell asleep.

I dreamed I was in the hospital again, for the lunchtime concert of the Kindertotenlieder, only this time I was seated not next to Kirstie, but the guest lecturer. She was wearing her lavender suit jacket, and her hand was resting on my knee. I tapped her politely on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, but would you mind taking your hand off my knee?”

She turned to look at me, a quick, annoyed flick of the eyes in which there was no sign of recognition.

“Shh,” she said, turning her attention back to the concert. “Please be quiet.”